Milton Crum Poems

We’re cleaning house,
but it’s not spring cleaning;
it’s autumn cleaning—
the autumn of our lives.
...

A stack of calendars marking the years of our lives;
the stack is downsized until none remain.
We cannot look at them before their time;
we cannot know how many are left,
...

Does it hurt you, Mother Earth,
when we slice your flesh to insert
the structures in which we live and work?
...