Star 69

By Angela Counts ©

The earth strip mined leaves
A bitter taste in the mouth
The caps of lush, green mountains
Ripped to moon deadness numbs me.

"Star Sixty-Nine" can bring back a deceitful telephone caller
But God created her once
Lush, impermanent memory.

When they visit her millennium from now
Will they know her languid and green?
Or will they marvel at her rugged terrain,
Grey, jagged, as far as the eye can see?

Will they think her like the Moon and We, rapacious moon-dwellers,
Stalking her stones and
Burying her streams?

Will the dreams of her past come to haunt in Deep forest nights when we dream in Technicolor past; when we
Surf the web of our collective imagination?

Will buried red bones rise up with
White bones
From the same dead Earth,
In hollers that no longer whisper?

We can never create her again,
Recover what she gave us.
We who want mortar and brick, and plastics
And cars to drive, and air conditioners to cool.

She will never breath the same way again, Offer us her majestic shoulders to stand upon. The crook of her arms
Will never shelter us again.

We will walk upon her carcass,
Sift through
Her debris
And fail to imagine her reality.

-- Angela Counts (c) copyright 1998

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