BEANERY ONLINE LITERARY MAGAZINE
Robert A. Woodall
A miller’s wheel beside the stream
to catch a waterfall
Is all that tells the fields around
were once, with grain, grown tall.
Now asphalt intercepts the rain
and sun and wind-spread seed.
There’s no place left for nature here,
we had a greater need.
For concrete, plastic, glass, and steel,
a million feet of board.
Machinery fills the valley now
where once the eagle soared.
Is heaven gone, the garden lost,
or someday will we see
Wild flowers grow and birds renew
their song of praise for Thee?