Water Tower

IMG

 

 

… an old water tower on the edge

of town.  It’s not used anymore.

They still haven’t torn it down.

Silver paint sheds in rusty

patches: a well-traveled knight

of old, or a rocket that never

made a journey.

It’s there in February wheat fields

without the green of early spring,

or shine of the cold white snow.

The mud is still frozen.

 

Evening comes early this far

North.  A light from the West sweeps

in under a grey sky, a honey light

smooths this dead place.

Warm air from the coast

over the mountains brings rain,

not the snow of the high passes.

 

Every year the plows get closer

to the supports; asphalt

spreads wider from town.

The tower will vanish.

I’ll flip a coin

as to which finally kills

the hollow ring in the reservoir.

 

first published in High Plains Literary Review, Vol. 7,

no. 3, Winter, 1992

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About johnsmithiiimxiii

John Smith, IIMXIII is the avatar of an award winning poet, artist, etc. who still lives in the Palouse country of the Pacific NW. He has not received much notice with his prose . . . but as his avatar, I hope that he keeps plugging along.

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