Monday, March 22, 2010


The gentle hill turns green from sun and shower,
youth’s fuzz growing long in maturity’s flower,
providing asylum within its cool tillage,
for nature’s exodus from progress’s ravage.

The highland stands lone against the invasion:
ceaseless influx of brick and vinyl and stone
replacing stem with beam, leaf with asphalt,
replacing the abandoned fruits of plow’s halt.

Small life competes vainly with man’s expansion,
huddled forlorn midst the smalling contagion,
listening to the growling chain saws overwhelm
all they’d always known of their obsolete realm.

The hill turns yellow from age and waning light.
Wind dried stalks presage the final blight.
Sleeping beings await the long wasting quake
of bulldozer ruin in the farmer’s wake.

Copyright ©1998, Patrick D. Fero. All rights reserved.

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