The Solar Arrays
The fields are sprouting, day by day,
A new crop called a solar array.
Loud the cries of views destroyed;
Letters fly from those annoyed.
How the shouts must have lifted high,
When telephone wires first crossed the sky!
And how good folk must once have raved
When dirt roads were replaced with paved!
Can you imagine the comments snide,
When railroads slashed the countryside?
Or further back, nomadic folk
Regarded our houses as a joke.
No one wants a power plant
To be next door. How we would rant!
Yet tapping the energy of the sun
Has also raised some frustration.
Nothing changes, Dickens wrote,
But some will object and freely emote.
We want the past, yet we want to grow,
And we don’t want poverty, you know.
Let’s take this newness in our stride;
There’s still a lot of Vermont-pride.
We can change, say the sheep who graze
Quietly beneath the arrays.
 
Lawrence A. Jones
Bristol