The smokestack spews its gritty plumes
of blackened filth, defiling the patch of sky
above the noisy city
while I sit miles away in this ancient courtyard
breathing in pure country air,
feeling the warmth of the sun
on my face and arms.
A hornet, uninvited, circles the maple syrup jar,
as a chilling breeze arrives to remind
that summer is almost gone.


Fifteen miles away from the belching paper mill,
we lunch at a country farmhouse, near
green rolling hills and a babbling brook...
a quiet reprieve in a world that
dispenses both blackness and gold,
filth and beauty,
sadness and ecstasy,
where the gods delight in watching us
juggle our conflicting priorities.