stumbling down dry-leaf trails on summer creek
— I dare not touch the water.
fish scales dry on sandy dunes,
on jagged banks like druid runes,
the smell is harsh, sulfur, metal
— I dare not swoon.
my lungs burn and churn hotter,
the anger of the gods, I think,
or the folly of man in a futile stink
— not that it matters now.
my soul is wandering fodder now.
but nothing circles overhead,
nothing seeks the dying and dead,
nothing lives in the riverbed
— alone without repose.
long since the days of old,
when it was a treat
to walk on summer creek.
About the Poem
This poem is a visual reflection on our destruction of nature.
About the Author
Dale Hensarling lives in Phoenix, Arizona, where he teaches English. He enjoys quiet times with puppies and his parrot, as he continues his Ph.D. in Communications.