The Meadow Is Gone
It will not return in Spring
Published in
Jan 14, 2021
The meadow is gone;
well, almost gone.
Some bits of it have not yet
been ravaged by metal maws.
It is winter, and the meadow
is like a sleeper undressed,
frail and drowsy beneath a sheet
too thin for protection.
Red-tailed hawks intent on a meal
search for life in the scanty grass.
Cawing crows, bold with bravado
cannot know of the changes to come.
The meadow will not see another spring,
will not shelter another butterfly or bud.
I watch the machines devour the earth,
my eyes wet with tears, remembering.
