Star stuff

But will the methane
spin from control
like the carbon
at heaven’s door?
At century’s end
will the bluebirds fly,
otters frolic on
the dike
from the corner
of my eye?

The reach of humans
has achieved a
language undefined,
by Random House ’83,
the polar vortex
known perhaps to
scientists but
not to me in ’83.
Meanwhile plastic,
lovely plastic creeps
through the sea,
bane of manatee,
foe of jaws, and
feathers of the sea
and air, passing on
to those who eat
this man-made pseudo-
food. What else is new?
Bees are busy
while the breeze
kills the lifeline –
buzz, buzz.
Will the spring
continue the song
or will we kill it-
and silence reign
again?

The farmer, perhaps
he knows all that
is enclosed in the
soil, keeper of
carbon, calcium and all
that depend upon it,
this – our society.
There is a continual
battle, with fields awash,
and seeds planted later
than ’35 when my
grandfather worked with
two horses and a plow.
This profession is
beleaguered and yet without
it we cannot stay put.
These very words
I natter with depend
upon staying put.

Stardust star stuff,
all that makes
the living us and
oh, my darlings
can’t you see
greed will be
the death of me –
me the ibis,
me the stork,
me the ape
who learned
to walk.
Greed will be
the death of me,
greed will be
the death of we,
neither swan nor
ape will live to see
the end of
century.