The Province

A man with one eye and a crooked nose, stands with friends on the outskirts of their city.
They look out on those still included,
still in color,
still alive.
They do not feel angry.
They do not feel sad.
They are weather worn, alone together.
They are home, and proud to be so.
The gentle residents question our impediment.
their Habitat is ascending signals as a vigil to the short span.
The iron lake province prevails as we whither frail,slow down and bail.
Even then will her elegance surpass our riches left behind.
Personalities of the forest watch as we tourists walk amongst their plan.
Some exiled,
some guardians,
standing or fallen,
growing sideways by their gnarled roots.
They do not merely hang on, but lay strong.
lending us a sight far less appreciated than deserved.
If The givers cease to persist we surly can't exist in the midst of broken arbor fists.
We're a living death compared to the givers of breath.
Feeling this energy in the form of inspiration.
We speak of their perspiration.
One weekend a year we lend an ear.
I understand what it means to sit still, quiet amongst peers.
Even in the cacophonous groan of machinery, they smile and continue to give.
And STILL I ask for more...
May I borrow your essence for a photograph Sir?