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Rated: E · Poetry · Nature · #2088752
Millennial seasons
It is coming.
And, you cannot stop it.
Deep beneath your feet--
below the debris of day to day,
beneath the lava tubes
and tidal pools,
beyond the farthest tree on farthest shore
and under all the tunnels man has built:
it is sleeping.

Gestating, if you will,
in mother's womb
(that global warming is but
the way nature
surrounds the next)
and while tis not yet time
for tumultuous birth,
the earthen mother labors.

Birthing pains
crack bedrock, unleash
molten lava profanities
spewed and forgotten by the speaker;
remembered by some who listen.
Harsh winds wipe her forehead
and still, the birds will sing of a morning:
for no birth can be mourned.

It is coming:
perhaps in your lifetime,
perhaps in that of your descendant's
descendants. But they do say
the third or fourth to come
comes quickly. And you will be
frozen mid-step,
unable or unwilling to run.

Perhaps the fortune tellers
will read the words carved into
tsunami waves or in the dew
scrawled across the tundra.
Perhaps the ancient ones will drum
arrival in the older ways: but will you
have eyes to hear or
ears to see? Will it matter?

It is coming:
regardless of global law,
intrinsic penalties or
screamed voices. There will be
no stopping this evolution.
The simplest and most accepting
will adapt for with understanding
comes acceptance. A snake will shed
its skin; there will be yet
another ring in the nautilus.

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