The Foragers
We forage for humanity,
hidden fruits quench our thirst.
Our hunting grounds, old overgrowth forest
just off the rail-line, down the hill to the
river, was a hobo camp long ago. Broken
pottery, tin plates and old bottles half
buried, speak of life's struggle. An attempt
at a foundation, now crumbling, imagines
hope for permanence, dissolved roots taken
by time.
The search, akin to walking through remnants
of a forgotten culture, feels like trespassing.
We sit and contemplate our passage as Wild
Turkeys scavenge nearby.
Peace is our prize.
Copyright © James Marshall Goff | Year Posted 2015
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