face of aridity

in the face of all aridity and as the storms

now arrive at the behest of human unkind hands
the sunlight is bathed in grey, not from mist or clouds
the ocean waves boil with refuse as the smog haze air
turns days into nights much too early and our winged
friends refuse to fly o’er land that is care deprived 

so too, not till dusk, do terrestrials come out to play
for they are cautious of man’s scorched earth
where the winds no longer carry fresh breath of air
nor do they sway barren trees to dance anymore   

 

we, the caretakers, must awaken and lift up

from that pillow cover of mire where our heads have
rested upon for so long in a darken room of residence,
extricating ourselves, convinced  we’ve had no hand
in Earth’s laboring last breaths as we go to sleep
in denial but in ignorance and silence, we are complicit.

 

carefully, we must undress Mother Nature’s attire

to wash and rinse out the grime laden dress into which we’ve
clothed her and hang to dry and breathe her azure chemise with
white cotton sleeves and too, her pastoral skirt that will once again
sway in joyous winds and breezes where gossamer and feather wings
will once again fly and play