When the rain splinters the sky and we run
scrambling for cover under the sweeping arms of one of the
last remaining trees of stature, when the
ground splits with frost heave and we
trip, stumbling over the aching sod, when we
press against cold wind, stripping us of moist life-warmth, and we
have nothing left to protect but our lives themselves, when we
wonder, is it worth the effort?
As we save our own skins
how can we expect to think beyond this moment
and anticipate what might be needed in the next one, or the next
or by the beings beside us, around us, under our feet?
When the last tree is our only shelter, we
fight over who gets to cut her down
and build a shack from her lovely flesh
When the frozen turf cannot bear life, we
would kill for the last remaining seeds to grind
and make bread, so warm, yeasty and delicious
When the wind is not our friend, we
would strip another’s skin for warmth
And somehow we are convinced that our lives have meaning?
March 13, 2008