Patricia L Backlund

Whispers

ong ago on the family farm I eagerly searched for wildflowers in
The majestic tree-lined hills. The clear creek that flowed through
The fertile green fields held salmon, trout and crawfish.
Planting time I became enthralled searching the
Cultivated fields for Indian arrowheads.

Then came the freeway built in the middle of this paradise.
The Indian chief was whispering, "Take care of my land."
The loggers came, the giant trees felled and the
Wildflowers were gone and the land subdivided.
My Grandfather was whispering, "Take care of our land."

No longer is the valley green with crops, and the salmon are gone.
No longer can I find my treasured arrowheads or sweetly scented
Wildflowers. I cry for the whispers were not heeded and my grandchildren
Will never know the excitement of fishing in the stream, finding
Arrowheads or gathering wildflowers. There are places where these
Gifts of God still exist and I whisper, "Take care of your land."





   

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