I heard the hum of the big diesel engines first.
The sun made the gravel barge glow.
Ancient rock scraped from the bowels of the mighty Columbia.
Scraped and dug from pits that never heal.
Like a picked scab on a schizophrenics arm,
Chewed from our banks, our protective brush discarded.
Open sores on our landscapes,
Bandaged with the fluff of hollow words, and empty promises.
Open sores on our land.
Open sores on our hands.
-Jeffrey Kee
1 comment:
Jeffrey-
I love the two last lines and the way they make it a personal, physical hurt when damage is done to a precisous part of nature.
So often we think we can change the nature scape as if its inert.
:)Kurt
Post a Comment