The End of Nature
- The End of Nature
By middle age we understand that nature is tedious—Those silent snowy fields are frozen and empty,Nothing more than broken trees and piles of rocks.The dull sea on which tubercular poets pliedTheir rudderless barks is now stained with oil,And the mountains shimmer in yellow smog.I can still imagine Wordsworth tramping aboutThrough boggy marshes, carrying the knapsack of his ego;But, really, what I want to say is how cold it seems,And that, as usual, the wind has spoiled our picnic. [End Page 28]
George Ovitt lives with his wife and daughters in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where he teaches history at the Albuquerque Academy, plays blues guitar, and writes poems and stories. He is the author of a collection of stories, The Snowman (Blue Mustang Press), and a collection of poems, Splitting the Difference (Big Table Publishing Co.).
