(Ms. Schwartz was inspired to write this poem while biking along the rail trail.)
The poet lies still
At the farm
The day lilies ring the gardens
And bob their blossoms in reverence.

The poet’s voice is still
While the sun
Ripens the black raspberries,
Sweet yarrow dances with the wind flowers,
Protective  St. John’s wort brightens
Beside pale yellow cinquefoil.

The poet is still;
Kearsarge  rises above all
As Eagle Pond campers squeal and splash,
Pedalers crunch the bike path
Where trains once hooted;
Time to pick up the mantle to connect
Our present to the past and future, for

The poet is still.