Heathland

 Year after year
 the moraines bred only
 bypass roads and flat roof stores.
 Winter never came anymore.

 "Too much rain,"
 they say now,
 "our soil cannot hold it."

 Our scraggy woods flushed.
 The lone oak exposed
 to stronger winds;
 and they're marching again.

 "Defend the soil,"
 they chant,
 "save the trees."

 But I'm no tree.
 I carry my roots with me.
 I can spread the sand between my toes
 anywhere.