Written by: Bernadette Langer

With ear to the ground
I felt a slight tremble,
like the stir of a whispering breeze
breaking its covenant of silence.

Stoically solemn hills
partially cloaked in roaming shadows,
the sun swiftly swimming,
across the edges of dawn.

Large crackling trunks,
with gnarled limbs pointedly misshapen,
standing huddled, accusingly transfixed
against a backdrop of mangled silver.

Clouds growing grimmer shades of pale,
as they swell with sadness,
to hang forlornly
upon realization’s icy horizon.

While glass houses of man’s dreams,
reflect the barrenness of fruition,
acid tears bleaching clarity;
Leaving hazy mists
for humans to draw lines of denial,
with fingers of blame. 

And nature is naught but empty ark,
grounded upon the shores of our wasteland.
For we greedily drank the waters of her womb,
swallowing whole the seeds of needed fertility.

Now a fruitless humanity remains,
spitting only salt,
into her infinitely gaping wounds.