The field at the end of my street
where cotton used to grow
where morning glories of purple and pink
bloomed in tangled profusion
where the autumn sun
burnished the treetops
where myriad insects would chorus
all summer long
is cleared
is being bulldozed
for houses
I will never again see the cotton
stretching out like snow
or the morning glories
rioting in the grass
the trees will be obscured
if they are allowed to remain
and the great insect choir
of quivering magic-sounds
is forever silenced
I cannot imagine how the field
is feeling
but I
am forlorn
Cotton from my lost field