and while we wait for cloud-made seams,
the earth tears limb from limb, and trusts
that we will mend her
— so it seems.
As fires rage through forests deep,
we find ourselves in stubborn dreams
in obstinate, unyielding sleep,
awaiting savior to come, to beam
like moonlight through the clouds, like
lush late-winter snow that glitters gold,
like deep green leaves, like magic, like
a flooding and subsuming rain
— so bold,
so utterly and blindly deaf to loud,
ambitious dreams, just pouring streams
through forests deep, through moonlit clouds
through earth we’ve torn along her seams
and now must mend.
Dry and barren
here we lay, upon the earth.
No savior coming, and no heron
to proclaim some mystical rebirth,
only the earth as it exists, and you and I,
and that which we have made our own —
though truly, ownership is but a lie.
How late we find our purpose
always was to loan
for one brief moment earth’s delights —
to float through forests, walk through streams;
to watch our light give way to nights;
at last, to swim in ceaseless dreams.