The wind through the fence
as vocal as any bird
speaks of the artifacts
of our presence –
not yet picturesque
except perhaps from some perspectives

Trees we’ve planted –
some of them rise
above their blue tubes –
others we take on faith
or on imagination,
visualizing groves

We have made mud swaths
where there was grass,
we have made piles –
of tools, of compost,
of equipment

Things are still beautiful
in varying lights of day and night.
We’ve made them less so,
but hope that’s only for a time,

©Wendy Mulhern
April 7, 2020