Fractured Eden

The Earth opens her mouth, but only smoke escapes. No words—just the long exhale of something dying too slowly. She once spoke in green— a dialect of leaf and wing, of rivers fluent in direction. Now, her language is static and flame. We stitched motorways across her skin, called it progress. Drilled into her marrow, called it wealth. Even silence has texture— ask the glaciers, ask the bees. She is not quiet. We are simply hard of listening.