No Land Weeps for Thee

The ice provides in this old land.

Each morning, I sit on the porch I built overlooking the water.

Today, icicles cling for dear life to the gutters while their friends, the snow mounds, hang on the white birch branches.

There’s just enough snow to settle the noise, to remind me how it used to be.

It used to be just us and the Smiths on this lake. Quiet and serene.

Now, the forest of birch trees has thinned. The deer don’t stroll through the yard.

Where there were only our tip-ups–real wood, mind you, there is now a forest of plastic.

Robert Smith used to sit here with me, too. That man loved to fish and was a damn good hunter. Always brought a fresh pheasant for Christmas. He made his donations to the Chief and respected the eagles on his property. We were always good neighbors.

That was until the diner closed down.

Robert tried his best. He really did.

But the out-of-towners wouldn’t pay for his roast once Starbucks moved in.

Every year until they left, we’d host Christmas. Spark a fire. Pour some schnapps. Give the kids a few toys.

Now, there’s never time, yet the iPad’s always alight.

The ice provides, just like the woods, and the streams.

Yet, with every sunrise, less of it remains.

I finish sipping my coffee out here one last time.

The developer should arrive soon.

I guess we didn’t learn the first time–

This land is no longer mine.