Improvements

The wilderness has been improved of late, Or so they say. The maple trees where sticky syrup oozed Between the cracks of scarred and broken bark, The wild apple trees whose crooked branches Cradled clumps of crudely woven twigs, Have been replaced by houses, row on row Of painted boxes gleaming in the naked sun. The narrow trail, a divine doodle Traced across the earth and kept in place By centuries of coyote and bear And deer that bounded zigzag up the slope Lies tame and straight beneath the asphalt sweep That cuts a leveled swath across the peak. The blackberry briars that pressed against the path And tore the skin from little hands that wiped the purple stain on Sunday clothes, Are cut away, and soft green grass grows in their place. “Superior development, and more to come,” The realtor explains, Not knowing that I was here before. I scan the hills for one certain house, An Improvement on a three-room shack where squirrels chattered in the rafters And wasps built nests against the eaves, And berry bushes dirtied up the window panes. The modern house is pink with snowy trim; A cement sidewalk leads from drive to door, And tulips nod obediently by the steps. Beyond the manicured lawn, The last undeveloped forest hugs the hill, And stubborn briars spill onto the planted grass. “I’ll buy the house,” I tell the man. He sees me looking at the woods and smiles Apologetically. “For a slightly higher fee,” he says, “that bit of forest can be cleared.” “I’ll take it as it is,” I tell him. “The blackberries might still grown in there.”