The Garbage Heap

Don't let me open my eyes,
turn the corner at the old Outpost,
see Bigger's Glen-- my playground of yesteryear
its ground exploded
is now a war zone of soon-to-be houses--

Dozer tracks deep, jagged
twigs and branches
Old Coke cans-- rusted--
cigarette butts, Big Mac wrappers
an empty circle of a Skoal can
Why are you here?

Please, don't let me hear the roar of the chain saw
or the quiet snap of logger boots
Cover my ears.
The forest is quiet no more and
the birds have forgotten their song.
And all I can see are uprooted stumps
their dried bark falling
to sleep with the wreck
the loggers left behind
a nd bodies of lifeless
trees heaped into
a community grave.

I want to go back--
push sugar ants around on a stick,
mumble "Shoo Fly,"
find that time when I could wear overalls
and run heathen through the woods.

I want to go back
balance on rocks along Butte Creek,
suck on licorice and M&Ms,
grab the prickly arms of Douglas firs.
Let me find the days
when Sunday mornings came at six
and nighttime never seemed to end.

Just let me lie with daisies--
lie in meadows of yellow
centers and white petals,
smell evergreen
and sleep under the shade of dying trees.