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Wednesday, May 3, 2017

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.
 

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