Wire Village they called it
From the industry that once built it
Small, simple dwellings
And a four room schoolhouse
Hardworking people
When the business went away
So did many families
Little towns struggling to reinvent themselves
And now we look back
What can we learn
Rain blessing all things equally
The kiss of drenched night air
Light filtered through curtains
Provides momentary glimpses
Wet leaves waving in the dark
No sign of Woodchuck
Safe in his burrow
Birds seek shelter
In the branches and leaf litter
Forgotten over the hill
From last season
The poet
Sits wrapped in a quilt
By the window
Notebooks, pens and books
Strewn across her bed
Eyes closed
She is one with it all
And the night is her time