Oh Mother Gaia,
you who endlessly forgives us
for turning
the magnanimous green moods of your face
into scenery without solace,
and winged whisperings
into the cold flap of instinct:
Keep dousing us
with the enlivening discomforts of weather
until those witchdoctors—
our senses—
squirm loose
from their civilized straightjackets,
hopping toothless
as our résumé of grief
gets shredded
by the worriless purity
of birdsong.
Oh dear and ruthlessly devoted Mother,
you who sees loveliness
in the toxic crayons
that scribble the skyline
of your psyche,
We ask nothing from you?but the courage to save
that endangered species of inquiry
pacing nervously
in the unindustrialized fringes
of our hearts:
“Are you becoming aware
of nature’s awareness
of you?”
