LIKE A MOONSCAPE— BURNT BROWN
by Margaret Jane Jones
I gaze across the wasted plain—
A dry land south of Damascus.
I want to smell the sweet perfumes
And moistair of its oases.
I want to hear tall grasses sway
As sheep feed and camels fatten.
I want to see golden hamsters
Basking in the Syrian sun.
But, that era has passed away,
Gone with its gazelles, now mostly
Found in booksof ancient times,
Like The Bible,and tales told
Under brightstars of desert nights
And wornwinds singing aged songs.
In its stead, I look out upon
A boulder-strewn, lifeless desert
Like a moonscape— burnt brown as death.
No lizard darts from rock to rock.
No pastures grow. No small creature
Races off to out-run the fox.
The fierce heat burns. There is no shade.
That great barren span on the road
Between Damascus and Amman
Haunts me—as in a dreaded dream
With warning sign: DangerAhead.
Now, I dwell in my native land,
Wrapped in its rich cloak of beauty—
America—a land to tend
And keep like a lovely garden.
I want to care for our forests
Of redwoods, cedar, pine, and oak.
I want to guard our green meadows,
Abloom with flowers late in spring—
Like ox-eye daisies clad in white.
I am one of seven billion
In our world, and, we multiply.
We multiply. We multiply.
How long can we keep our Eden
From vanishing and becoming
A thousand years hence, only a
Far-fetched fairy tale for children?
Margaret Jane Jones.
All Rights Reserved.