Woodstock Is Gone

My cottage which sat at the end Of an old country trail Lined with trees Has been replaced By streetlamps and a paved road Called Market Street I no longer see The cold northern winds Swaying snow filled branches Or the morning frost Gathering on the bottom Of my cottage windows The sound of the forest Has been replaced By the movement of cars In the morning On their way to work And in the evening going home The beauty of a full moon Surrounded by the brilliance Of a million stars Has been washed pale By the brightness Of city street lights While I spend too much time Wondering why I am here Trying to understand The foolishness that caused me To sit and accept What I have done... and why Woodstock is gone