POEM: Foxtail and The Construction Site

In a nearby field where once foxtail grew
Straight and lean, full lipped, with effervescent glow,
Dark and rich earth now broods, upturned and in grief -
There rest the rough-worked calloused hands of progress
In the guilt that is a simple mound of dirt.
I relive mornings that I watched the sun paint
The foxtail red as any blushed October.
What remains is a scar in the shape of loam.
But the way newborn grass refracts airy light,
I mistake this for some enduring tribute
To an immutable and ripening day