Member Poem

Wandering as my forebears did, without
religion, politics, agendas, hate,
ambling across this meadow, roaming about
these groves, around that lake, I gravitate
toward nothing particular — just time for smelling
the bogs and butterfly bushes; to touch those rushes,
their texture smooth as frogs; to probe this dwelling
of excellent insects; to listen to the thrushes
that pierce this fog, this cloud of quietude
guarding and sheltering these hills and fields.
I say, let there be quakes and hurricanes.
Let oceans rise. Let folks be kind or rude.
Those things are but the vague and far-off peals
of thunder and the cries of distant trains.