Resting Legends – A Poem

Resting Legends

I don’t know what I am doing here,
or even where here is for that matter.

There is a hole in the floor that is silver
and reflective and shimmering

like mercury. Yet I know I could pass through
it, if I wanted, it only being a thin

membrane of no substance, and I would
travel somewhere else. Where that is

I cannot say. Someplace different I
suppose. Maybe the sun is green there and

the oceans frozen, the people live in brick
houses that line the coasts and stare

at waves that never crash. But I like it
here. It smells of fresh cinnamon buns

with gossamer frosting. The library is tall
and filled with books I have never read

though there is always a thin dust that
coats the desks and the tables, the chairs

and the shelves. A man comes to see me
everyday, or I go to see him. He is old with

very little hair and a large nose and ears. We
play checkers and cards, or build puzzles

out on the patio and watch the deer graze
in the field. Smoke always rises from the factory

down in the valley. I have been told they
build computer chips used in a wide variety

of applications, even tracking rare marine life,
and also people have said they make cauldrons

for a select clientele of witches. I don’t know
the truth, but I suppose it does not matter

as my knowledge of it would not stop the
smoke from rising continually, pouring fumes

over the landscape and clouding the setting
sun. The old man tells me stories. He

leans on his cane while he sits in his wicker
seated chair and tells me about the past.

Personal and general. Histories of the area,
and of the world, loves and wars, resting

legends that pass quickly away, fading more
day by day. Night is the hardest. I lie restless

in bed or walk the grounds, its fields and woods,
in summer when insects are crowding the bushes

and the stones with their chirping and buzzing,
meteors pass overhead, beautifully aloof; And in

winter when the frozen ground stiffens
under my step, snow grips the meadows

and the trees, the world’s quiet a solemn feast
to my heart. It is at night that I feel lost,

or a loss, or maybe both, and the urge will grip
me, pulls upon me and drags me to the hole

where I nearly lay my hand on its tightly
stretched surface, and I long to dive through,

timidly slipping into the cool abyss.

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