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Itís Not How I Remembered
by William Mae
12/16/04
For Sale
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Coming back I see the changes,
I wish it were but fantasy,
But it's reality that Iím seeing,
itís not what I want to see.

Where are the fields that swayed with wheat,
from gentle winds in afternoon?
You want a paradise of concrete,
spreading beneath the harvest moon.

Whereís the farming tools that scattered,
in the corner at rows end,
You want trashcans spilling trash,
with a fence to hold it in.

Are the eagles soaring high,
to catch field mice unaware?
Or are those scavengers seeking dead flesh,
rotting down beneath their lair.

Whereís the maples, oaks, and birches,
with limbs touching as they sway,
You mean you wanted rolls of lamp poles.
to cast an artificial day.

Whereís the stream quietly ebbing,
snaking down the valley floor?
You want a ditch with culverts,
with steel caps to act as doors.

Whereís the trout, perch, and salmon,
splashing droplets to the sky,
You want the oil slick sludge with waste,
that this concrete tries to hide.

I donít see the lain where lovers,
sealed their passion with a kiss,
You sold it for parking meters,
as if we needed more of this.

Well whereís the place to sit in shade,
to view natures wondrous plan,
You needed gum-ridden sidewalks,
with ashes mixed with washing sand.

I canít see the snow cap mountains,
set against the bluest blue,
You wanted ugly rising buildings,
hiding this angelic view.

Everything that men touches,
leaves his fingerprint of harm,
Some may think this beauty,
but itís not my thoughts of charm.

Someone shake me, say Iím dreaming,
leave this nightmare far behind,
Say these things are not reality,
that itís all just in my mind.

Say we would not destroy this beauty,
not for what some call progress,
We are not that cruel as humans,
to cause nature such distress.

Would we sacrifice this beauty,
in a selfish act of greed?
To prove what, we need more money,
for this materialistic feed.








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