It's remarkable to think that we have finally come full circle
Yet with each whistle of the wind; appreciating the swaying trees
I am reminded that it is again that time of the year.
When the earth feels as cold as my stoned heart,
Where tears would once lead to bloomed flowers
All that greets them is the solid unforgiving earth.
The weeping skies now flood us with their sorrow,
So immersed in their grief that they forget those they guard beneath their shadows;
Where once their tears would heal and cajole us into laughter,
It now leaves only a yearning for survival and safety.
Yet despite it all the chimneys continue to smoke cigars in place of the men with pockets;
Men whose pockets mint money as if they were mother nature’s very own money plants.
This farce of nature has led to mother deteriorating as she watches helplessly
Her children suffer the ravages of scorching heat, temperamental winds, angered fire gods and witlessly weeping water nymphs.
Chronically ill, she tethers on her death bed praying a final prayer,
For the men with big pockets to let her children live freely as
They did once before.