Our Fantasy
Across Lake Nebagamon, bordering its shore,
This wet, gray Thursday,
The maples' scarlets, tangerines, plums, yellows, and greens
Yet radiate yesterday's sun, last evening's moon-spell.
I can tell, by the way they refuse to be subdued by the gloom.
As for me, I don't have quite the dignity of trees and leaves.
I'm of a selfish species,
One used to manipulating reality, to fit its attitudes and moods.
I guess you could say we've been spoiled
By our aptitude for glutting our cupidity for creature comforts.
Sometimes, I wonder if our expectations, our exploitations
Don't sunder nature to such a numbing degree
That even its very reason for being seems a fantasy
And that were it to vanish into our thinning air,
Nothing would be impaired and we'd thrive on concrete and steel.
09/23/10 - (1)
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