Blueberries and Dust

The field is vast, like the plains

it has plowed up, but holds no

real beauty, and no sense of nurtured

life is present in this land of alien crop.

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A great construction, a sprinkler,

spans far, but the men pushing it don't

seem to blink, and the sky has not a

cloud above, the dirt below no feel.

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Odd constructions whose shape does

not match the land, driven by men

who have never ridden horse or truly plowed, run

through the open air like great beasts.

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When the rain falls, it falls with reluctance,

for it goes not to life, not to growth

in the way only the rain and sun and earth can know,

but to a bizarre, strange, hungry mouths.

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What must man do, if anything?

Surely no one really knows.

Rubber and steel rumble over the ground,

but do not ever really see it below.

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Fools you are who have seized the land,

hoping to gain, knowing you will gain,

regardless of what happens to a people

and a world around you: go to sleep!

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Quiet! Quiet! Quiet! Now the ground

will speak only very softly, like a lover

that has been beaten mercilessly by

her favorite, for no reason at all.

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You know what you have done,

and you are at peace with yourselves,

as expected, but that does not mean

others are at peace with you.

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Despite the efforts of the many,

the other remains, and will remain

so long as there is not a Sahara in the

making, already, dust.

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Crops grow tall, life comes again,

fields once fallow are rustled by the wind;

and the warm summer comes down,

with it comes the new dreams of the future.