Fields of Blue-tipped Grass

Growing up, most of the land around where my family lived was farm land. Few neighborhoods existed in that area, and the ones that did were small to medium in size. More recently a lot of development has been going on in this part of town. It has become much more industrialized. One afternoon this past summer, visiting my mother's home in one of these neighborhoods, my brother and I walked beyond the boundary of this subdivision to find, just past a wooded area, a great field that stretched almost as far as the eye could see. There was an old barn, withered, and falling apart from years of neglect, and a creek, quiet in this forest sanctuary; grass almost two feet high. This area used to be nothing but acres upon acres of open land, just like this. With the development that has taken place lately, it was strange that we had come across an area that remained untouched. We spent several hours walking, just walking through this field and these woods, talking of this recent industrialization; of how rare this piece of land now was, and how soon even it would be developed. This poem was written after that walk.

FIELDS OF BLUE-TIPPED GRASS
for Michael James

Step away from the blacktop, Michael,
we are not far away. Just over the
barbed wire fence, crimson and rusted,
is a field with blue-tipped grass
and rolling hills; where the only boundary
to be seen runs along the creek-side.