Ode to Earth
If clouds are her curls waving in the wind, whitecaps the frothy lace of her blue-grey skirts slightly worn and often dingy the sandy beach her legs, mostly smooth the pebbles gooseflesh and the cliffs her feet, then what is the asphalt and concrete but cracked and creeping fissures of an age of desperation and malicious destiny? And what am I, and all my kind in the scheme of geology? What of the liquid hydrocarbon, the controlled hemorrhaging of which keeps her weak and pliable? Our rash of boxy blemishes a speading pox following the razor burn of denuded forests? When the time of reckoning comes will she lower her skirts, let the lace creep up the shores, swirl past the cliffs of her toes and seal our fates in a watery tomb? Or will she breathe in her blood turned to gas raise her skirts and withdraw until our foolishness causes the end of the Primate Period?