Freudenberg

That grey-scale paperweight town still

lies heavy on my mind.

Thrust upon an ocean of gold

and cherry leaves, it stood silent

and unfinished;

an outline of houses made with

oil-black ink

waiting for the warmth of

paint.

Some will tell you

that if you head east

towards the sun-warmed hills,

the sketched out town will

stare you down;

row after row

of asymmetric triplets,

watching.

I remember looking in,

from afar.

Thinking that the people there

must echo the measured monochrome;

tiny paper beings of

ink, and soot.

Or, if they didn’t,

that it would be my task

to turn to ash.