Woodstock Is Gone Poem by Cecil (cj) Krieger

My cottage which sat at the end
Of an old country trail
Lined with trees
Has been replaced
By streetlamps and a paved road
Called Market Street

I no longer see
The cold northern winds
Swaying snow filled branches
Or the morning frost
Gathering on the bottom
Of my cottage windows

The sound of the forest
Has been replaced
By the movement of cars
In the morning
On their way to work
And in the evening going home

The beauty of a full moon
Surrounded by the brilliance
Of a million stars
Has been washed pale
By the brightness
Of city street lights

While I spend too much time
Wondering why I am here
Trying to understand
The foolishness that caused me
To sit and accept
What I have done... and why

Woodstock is gone