same fields
different crops.
roads have grown,
they’re wider.
lots.
and lots
fewer stars at night,
so many cars
more trucks,
stacked double- deck trailors.
a freeway goes through now
the middle of where farms used to be.
where i knew green
so long ago
when my friends family
plowed long days.
where Indians lost arrow heads
right over there
and years later just walking along
we found them.
it was so easy
a kid could do it.
at dusk we helped
and closed the gate
when good dog
brought the cattle in from pasture.
we drank fresh cider
from great barrels
and slept between hay bales
in the barn
now in those same fields
the farm is gone
a golf course has come,
new houses have popped out of the ground
quick as mushrooms in the spring.
a neighbors’ dog
barks at night inside the house
to be let outside to pee.
if he’s a guard dog
he must be guarding the TV,
whatever you do -
Don’t touch that dial!
blink and you could miss
what is coming next
in these same fields.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
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2 comments:
Jack, this one reached into my heart and squeezed it. That is a good thing. It also wrapped around my soul. I love it. It's a sad story that needs to be told over and over. I love how you tell it.
The golf course and houses blooming like mushrooms...yes. The roads growing where crops use to be...yes. The details are very powerful. You show me the television, then you bring me back to the fields in the end with an awesome rhythm. Beautiful work. My heart thanks you.
"and years later just walking along
we found them.
it was so easy
a kid could do it."
Hi Jack, It's lines like these that make your poems read so naturally, and yet, I know it takes effort to make them read so smoothly. Julie is right- This is beautiful work that makes the soul ache, reminding us not only of what we've lost, but how we'd better look now, before we've lost the rest of it. Still, it gives me hope, that everything we're looking at, in whatever time, is worth the effort to savor and appreciate.
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