Meet me at the corner of
Beacon and Amory,
you shall see; this that before was so blind to me.
For behind the tree and the subtlety
a man of honor once stood,
on what is now a walkway of wood.
I would show you if I could,
but he is just a perennial memory;
his ashes burned on a chilly afternoon
in the white cedar swamp of Amory.
The story as I was told,
began in late summer of the days of old,
when the man planted the seeds his neighbors had sold.
Each year they rise in the
rains and the mighty winds;
then they wilt as the first frost begins.
His legacy is all but some flowers,
born in spring showers.
If you ever go back,
would you plant a seed for me,
in that little city sanctuary,
called Amory?
