the road

the good earth wears the road,
marred as a blight cut deep into its flesh
and covered with false stone
unnatural, an affront to those
creatures it loves and provides for;
the road produces only hurry
and danger, dry heat and smog

like all things living, the ground
ceaselessly works to to eradicate
that which scratches and vexes it
it breaks it down
roots it up
swallows it under

the skies, in solidarity, send
their rains and sun, ice and heat
in hopes of restoring the grasslands
it has disfigured, and the
mountain sides it has defaced

but the earth-itching wound is
ever repoured, ever patched,
ever built-up by those whose
economy is unsynced with
the notion of place and peace.
it knows only
progress and movement
never stillness or quiet;
it knows only utilization
never association
a market of fracked valleys
and blown mountains
and pillaged places
and people

yet

in the deep forgotten places
where there is no utility left
for greedy exploiters
where what could be looted and sold
is gone
the road cracks, and something
green emerges
the birds sing and the deer prance
and the earth slowly restores itself
over this crumbled road
leaving only a faint mark, a
memory receding whose value
is lesson

and I am happy
that God has made us, also,
to live and to heal and to wear
these scars

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