earth day is every day

Thoughts on the earth, which is the cosmos, which is the Truth

---------

Are we on the back of a whale,

riding the sea like a cruise ship

strapped to the back of a marine placental animal;

holding our collective breath

when the rogue mammal dives deep

to feed, to live?

If she is our warm-blooded mother,

slipping into the sea after land evolution

grew too tiresome

if she is our ride through life

this in one fucking hell of a jaunt,

I must say.

But she knows sacrifice.

She knows the extended song

of grief

she echoes her viscous melancholy

throughout the oceans wide.

She travels thousands of miles

to the Earth’s equator to give birth;

calf after calf after calf dying

at the hand of our foolishness

we've been hunting her down for years

for oil to burn,

bones to carve;

corralling her to perform tricks;

her dying over and over in captivity

and all the while we are

dumping toxins over the edge of this ship

on her back

onto her body, into her mouth

infecting her water, her air

stifling the life of our caregiver—

Could we have honestly expected anything different?

------

“The sky looks like it could kill,” he said

as we watched the dark turbulence roll towards us;

we were sitting nonchalantly, dangling bare feet

over the pier; the ocean rippling in

preparation; our old shoes and socks laying lifeless

at my hip.

It could, you know. Kill us.

The universe has no

thought to us.

It’s constant quest

is a search for a balance, that

homeostasis

which is heartless, unfeeling.

Perhaps not evil, but not compassionate, either. 

It's a toss up.

Maybe it could kill. After all, lightning split

the tree next to my parents’ house

straight down the middle

its blackened tar burn

along a jagged edge

of something that tried to be alive.

The wind can make a funnel

that takes you away.

The water cycle, which is the sky,

which is the earth,

can rain, storm, hurricane and flood

when we least expect it

it can freeze us to death in ice

it can boil us alive where the delicate

ozone has started to disintegrate.

The terra firma, which is the ground,

which is the earth

can give way, tsunamis and famines

drown us or whither us away to nothing

The universe has

no thought to us.

But, as a thought bearing soul

in what seems like a vapid chaos,

perhaps it is my job

to have a thought for us.

It’s a burden, to care for everything

to break the planet’s fever

to feed the young

to weep for injustice

to plant trees and sit in their shadows

to rescue the lost

to save the exiled.

It's too much.

But this sneaking thought,

trifling, skirting around my mind-

which is the heart, which is the cosmos,

which is the Truth

slowly growing

like a creakily opening fist

gently, stiff and hurting

from holding on so tightly; slowly

unclenching the world:

the words are small. 

 

if I give some of this to you,

we can do this

together.