From the Factory Window II

Rare as white buffalos
were windows on the factory floor.
Anyone who worked
near such scarce and wondrous portals
was counted as fortunate; indeed,
or perhaps blessed by God.

I remember the afternoon sunlight
streaming narrowly inside,
like a needle plunged under the skin;
searching within for withered souls.

One day, after years of endless repetition
and walking in circles midst a forest of machines,
I followed the sun outside
and never returned.

Next poem: Hold Every Moment Sacred

Author: Jerry Dan Deutschendorf
from: Red Earth Whisperings
Part I: Nature and the Nature of Things