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Nature’s often abstract way of communicating may someday be all that’s left. (Image by M. Meir)
by Odin Roark
Time chooses to whisper,
Having endured shouting decades,
A species’ feigned listening,
Maelstrom's obsessive noise-making.
Is but a parade,
A just married tin can raucous
Tied to mankind's bumper.
How tenuous one’s duration.
Sitting inside time's tree house,
This place of early discoveries,
Where do and don't became but chaff-covered kernels
A slow growing wisdom first heard,
Through Daddy’s cheap wine curiosity
Slowly washing away innocence,
Introducing adult fantasies
Through the malaise of unknown tomorrows.
Synchronously, tiny sparrows
Nesting in branches above
Chirped their own hunger pangs,
Awaiting mother and worm.
Below, a squirrel foraging acorns paused,
Looked up and listened to the now of Nature’s family,
Savored sounds of his own way and means.
Time awaits the next moment.
As far as the eye can see,
Old roof tops recede,
Conifers hold firm their rightful place
Hosting fowl and predator alike,
Remaining ready to engage the next of reality’s misdeeds,
Endless out-of-control concussion of erosive man,
While Nature digs in for another encounter.
In duration’s not-too-distant future,
Man’s earth destroying roar
Will hopefully stumble and be swallowed
By the unsullied trees,
Allowing the essence of Nature's inexhaustive patience
To be heard.
Some will hear the desperate existence whisper
The harmonious nocturnes of everything that is,
Embracing the elusive nothingness of peace,
Even as attachment and resistance
Remains forever tone deaf.