Eulogy for the Garden (A Hymn of Confusion)

The creek whispers
as I sit on the rough bark at the eve of summer;
it whispers secrets that I had long forgotten
and would learn again
if only I could remember the story.

Plump and regal snails
carry their castles on their shoulders
and hold their antlers high;
they keep their counsel
in their own shells
though no one has ever asked for it.

June's barbaric grass
and mats of moss and clover
stray onto the path of packed soil;
they hear the gossip in the creaking pines
to retell under winter's snow.

But the creek chokes
on the chemical phlegm that sticks to the rocks;
the snails are silent in this glade
because this is the wake of those lost in cultivation;
the forget-me-nots will be
forgotten in the frost as the
willows perpetually weep.

I cannot hear the water's tragedy
nor the shelled wisdom
nor the groans of the pines
because the furniture factory uncleanses the breeze
with a lathe, a sander, and a buzz-saw;
because the air-brakes of the transport trucks
hiss.

And I remember
that the trees are tall enough to look on the hill
and see the headstones of the village cemetery,
as the momuments cover naked earth.