Look through the trees
From the Hanging Hill cliffs
To the brown littered leaves.
Green and then yellowed,
But only when fallen
Could what was beneath be seen.
Look to the East
From the Hanging Hill cliffs
To Merimere, fed by cool streams.
Whether rippled with wind
Or still in the dawn,
Only reflections are seen.
Look through your feet
Atop Hanging Hill cliffs
At broken basalt crumbled in heaps.
A giant stone puzzle,
This pile of rubble,
Will never again be complete.
(Merimere and Hanging Hill are in Meriden, CT)
Poetry by Don Segal 