Our skies sink further into dust

and while we wait for cloud-made seams,

the earth tears limb from limb, and trusts

that we will mend her

— so it seems.


As fires rage through forests deep,

we find ourselves in stubborn dreams

in obstinate, unyielding sleep,

awaiting savior to come, to beam


like moonlight through the clouds, like

lush late-winter snow that glitters gold,

like deep green leaves, like magic, like

a flooding and subsuming rain

— so bold,


so utterly and blindly deaf to loud,

ambitious dreams, just pouring streams

through forests deep, through moonlit clouds

through earth we’ve torn along her seams


and now must mend.

Dry and barren

here we lay, upon the earth.

No savior coming, and no heron

to proclaim some mystical rebirth,


only the earth as it exists, and you and I,

and that which we have made our own —

though truly, ownership is but a lie.

How late we find our purpose

always was to loan


for one brief moment earth’s delights —

to float through forests, walk through streams;

to watch our light give way to nights;

at last, to swim in ceaseless dreams.