Ninilchik (Spring)

With the recent arrival of spring in my far-north corner of the globe, my infant son and his heavy-duty stroller have been taking to the many narrow, sprawling gravel roads around our house, enjoying the brisk warmish air and the pensive sunshine. As I walk, I can't help but notice the houses we pass. Many are abandoned, and all are in some form of disrepair. Broken down trucks, boats, and all-terrain vehicles clutter the yards. This is a dying town: once a dream destination, the demise of the fishing industry and decline of tourism have left it struggling for survival. People who moved here in pursuit of the elusive "Alaskan dream" have discovered disappointment instead. Goals have tarnished; dreams have dimmed. It's depressing. So I wrote a poem about it. 

I tread the dust of rusty trails

Slow roads

Weave through woods and willows

Spruce and sprigs

And swamps

The cold sun circles, never sets

While wind, wild, tireless

Bites, fights the warmth of rushing blood            

Chills, and stills

Even strongest hearts

There, and here, houses stand

Or sprawl?

Lazy, half-done,

Slouching back into the ground

Unsound, haphazard, drunk

Broken down cars surround,

Crowd each house

And old RVs,

Skeletons of parked dreams,

Clutter lonely yards.

(c) 2015 Janice Kaye