A Poem by Sarah M. Zang
this patch of barren ground,
this poisoned realm where dreams
have curled like dead leaves seared
before their time,
but not by sun nor season.
All has fallen
to a race begun
by corporations enthroned in silica
and steel temples where the gods
wear names like Diamond Shamrock,
Dow, Hercules, Monsanto, TH Agriculture,
Thompson Chemical and Uniroyal;
the word settlement is antithetical.
In the real world
trees take on the myriad hues
of fall, frost is ripening the pumpkins;
the lawnmower is in the shed.
Swirling leaves whisper
‘Bring a sweater’
It’s that time of year.
Somewhere life and death decisions,
about the latest ad or the latest fashions,
are being made. Stores are rearranging
shelves in celebration of the season
that digs the deepest in our hearts
and pocketbooks. Somewhere a bomb
is dropping; a mother is rocking her babe,
shushing the crying that the enemy might hear.
Glass and concrete,
suburban lawns with blight,
sad hearts and glad. Dreams
and wishes and reality: These things
are conceived by you and me.
The real world is the turning of the trees,
the swirling leaves.
This patch of barren ground
is contrived by greed, manipulated
like twisted genes and ecosystems run amok,
Reality is that if we break we pay;
what price is this? Time now
for the gods to pray.