When Wind Turbine Blades Expire

On the road over Altamont Pass
wind turbines stir by the incessant
gusts that whip through the sere grass.
The white towers form uniform rows
like the identical white headstones
where two million are interred.

When wind turbines die, their bones go
to landfill’s dry catacombs. No memorial,
no eulogy for making clean energy.
Their fiberglass will never decompose
and can’t be recycled.

The blades will be buried in common pits
until a startup invents a way
to chew them up into pellets or press them
for an afterlife as fiber boards.
Stacks of T. rex-sized limbs,
the remains of our good intentions.

Cathryn Shea's poetry collection is Genealogy Lesson for the Laity (Unsolicited Press). Her chapbooks include Backpack Full of Leaves and It's Raining Lullabies. A Best of the Net nominee, her poetry has appeared widely in journals and anthologies. See www.cathrynshea.com.