Global Change

Every time I walk in the woods I am anxious until I see The random flower Assuring me these woods will be here Tomorrow. With all the talk of global change I am conscious that I am becoming A hypochondriac And my phobia is not water Rising over the boundary of sand To submerge the city There can be no other strategy For spring cleaning The violence and greed stains Like the horroe on Macbeth's hand My horror is not that But rather my lung dessicated Gasping, choking on the gravel of atmosphere After the sun like a pump has sucked All the air out of the bronchioles of leaves. O when I come this way again Please let that last little flower be there.