CRY OF THE UNRECLAIMED

Only the clarion call
of woodland bird,
the trickling song of mountain stream,
should fill the silence here.
Stately oaks should crown this noble queen.

Here sleek fox and graceful doe,
should raise their young,
squirrel and chipmunk
find a home.

Only the dance of dying leaf,
the burgeoning thrust of budding tree,
should mark time’s passage here.

But no.
Lust would never have it so.

The deadly drone of diesel engine,
steel machines to cut and slash,
assail this fertile motherland,
leave behind no unturned stone.

Stripped to the bone and ripped apart,
she grieves.
Her heart is left to die alone.

Only the flesh of fallen trees,
the bone-gray mounds of granite stones,
only the stagnant blood of mud-chocked
mountain streams to tell the tale remain.

But know.
Her seeds are left for us to sow.
The earth lies unreclaimed.

Jeff Chapman-Crane 1986