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Progress

While passing westward through the woods,
I came upon a trail.
On which green moss grew all around,
and on which sat a snail.
Soft rain fell like a veil.

To the right, I saw a house,
a garage, a car, and such.
Apparent that this clear cut land
had felt man's steel touch.
Nature was in his clutch.

But to the left, there were no signs
of man or his machines.
There was no trace of saw or blade
or hurt by other means,
the trees so full and green.

A "virgin wood", I'd heard it called.
So clean and untouched still.
Not met by man, nor felt the power
of his iron will,
deaf to his instinct to kill.

How strange it is, that these pure woods
are seen as somewhat rare.
Now normal is all smoke and fire
with ground so cold and bare.
A world filled with despair.

But in the night, when all is dark,
and moonbeams come to play,
a blinding light shoots through the trees
to chase them all away,
all filled up with dismay.

The stars are blocked by this glaring beam,
ignored, cast into shade.
And as the years pass, I can see
that they begin to fade.
A thing so beautifully made.



For why should they all sparkle
and glimmer in the night?
When no one now can see them
and feast upon their sight.
No more stars shining bright.

Soon after, creatures vanish,
and leave this place behind.
Away from here all things will go,
a new home they will find.
They'll leave it for mankind.

Then saws, and metal, screaming gears
rip into the quiet wood.
Tear down the plants, send birds flying,
stripping away all that's good.
Cold mud where trees once stood.

But they move on to a new place,
leaving this as bare ground.
I come back to this wood one day,
and look and look around.
I listen, not a sound.



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