In Better Times
All strangers are savages,
Until dawn when their perceived spears are fishing poles cast.
Long shadows dance beneath the milieu of shades of orange and red,
As a La Noria spice market somewhere in a distant past.
A chilly morning in an unmolested woods,
Where the tree tops rock like masts.
And a torch on a dock lights the way,
Amid an unfamiliar darkness so vast.
Where welcomed in for some white pine tea,
Travelers share stories recaste.
Alas, in better times they say in every present,
Better times have long since passed.
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