The world in which your grandchildren's grandchildren
run through the house on the first day it snows 
will come and it will be like nothing you imagine 

for you cannot imagine it, not now, not today,
not in this life when you are grieving the world as it is 
and cannot fathom the world as it one day will be 

alive in its new and confounding way, a world in which
your grandchildren's grandchildren will no more 
look back in longing on the bygone age of industry   

than you look back and long for the age of slave ships 
and digging potatoes from the dryland.