Windy meadows that long ago
Were stripped of all their life:
Elegant firs, long needled pine
And birch that peels around.
They’ve all been reaped
Into a heap;
Grinding and turning
Paving and spreading
Strip malls and sidewalks.
All in the name of progress.
In belief of and for
Settlers heading west.
But where was I at these round tables
Where was my voice of reason?
Was I asked for my steady thoughts
To protect our mother’s children?
For now I am to blame.
Here to suffer
To pull at breath and
Leave my anguish at the door;
Kick off my factory shoes,
Step into my factory warmth,
And yawn my factory toil.
I am not anymore the savior sun;
A strong branch upon a tree
Deep within the forest.
But I am a sapling reaching up
Into the sky above.
A sign of life, natures life:
An orb of sweet Gaia
