The Poets' Lament
by Ken Hada

We feel it deeply –
this helpless feeling
that we cannot save

anything worth saving
save our voice
raised in praise of beauty

the goodness of life –
the feeling we get
driving 285 south

Santa Fe to Clines Corner
on a bright August morning,
the various shades

of green mingled
on the caprock,
the rust-colored arroyos

sunflowers rising yellow
proud and primal
in ultimate protest.

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