Wyrd Spins, and Ruins Become Temples

The army of trees creeps close to the edge of abandoned towns. The dark ages of human beings are the slow reweaving of organic life on the planet. Settlements fall to ruins, there is hope in collapse, ghosts dance in the broken monuments, and the roll of but a few generations, and no one can imagine anyone human living in such monstrosities built by crippled, limping ogres. Hymns are sung to reclaiming-nature for whom desolation is salvation for crickets and moonlight, fir trees and birch, song birds and humus-churning worms. Wyrd turns and old hopes become compost, treasures reclaimed by the soil and left for spinners of tales to wonder. Boondocks swallow and replenish, all becomes hick, return of the frontier, fallen ancestors' impossibilities find new return, ruins become temples, reminding of old but not so good times. There's a strange freedom in the forest. Weeds exploit cracks and colonize roads, milled by turning of years into rubble dotting rural landscapes. Wyrd spins and ruins become temples, crescendos are woven into descendos, with denoument the downhand stitch in her elusive integration. Dreams you can't identify, having rotten into the soil ages ago, haunt the unconscious, and life becomes an unacknowledged seance, given form from time to time by small bands of luscious crazies yeasting abandoned bakeries and forgotten social loaves sprinkled into the raised cups and horns of frothing mead. The age turns. Corrosion is a form of writing, grasping thick leaves bound with leather and making marks of creeping Gaian mind slowly remaking hubris into humus. Rustbelts lay deposits of iron ore for future ages, while ancient curses against the age of iron find silent glee and justice. It's better than you think. On the other side of the Rhine there are grand feasts and dances the likes of which have not been seen in generations, and some cross the Nibelung's watery stash to welcome brothers out of the shattered Roman tombs back into the tribal arms of solidarity, and settlements become islands in waves and waves of woodland seas. The army of trees creeps close to the edge of abandoned towns. Boondocks swallow and replenish, weeds exploit cracks, and marks are written on bark again. The age turns.



See, for example, http://www.wwmt.com/articles/roads-1363526-mich-counties.html , http://www.telegraph.co.uk/finance/financetopics/financialcrisis/5516536/US-cities-may-have-to-be-bulldozed-in-order-to-survive.html . http://www.hcn.org/issues/194/10194 , http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buffalo_Commons , http://www.zmag.org/znet/viewArticle/19679