The marsh, cut off by the black thread
The highway I travel so often.
Lily pads, bent edges exposed by the bloom
The burst of their growth;
Between the rushes and ribbon of water
Flowing down from the woods.
How recently it was different
Ducks paddling where the blanket is now;
Untrammeled by invasive species,
The runoff of fertilizers of the farms around.
Choked water of brown not blue
Murk and smell off the road that sealed its doom;
Away from the fresh lake, the clear water
On the other side forevermore.
Soon it will be colored by fall hues
Fragile weakened trees;
Sooner than nearby in healthier soils.
Truly it can be said,
Mournful are the harbingers,
The progeny, the children,
Of thoughtless development.
August 15, 2005 11:46