Now that I can see beyond the dust
and dead oaks crumbling, begging
for some purpose yet as cordwood—
now that I can breathe, inhale wet,
clear channels to broaden my senses,
taste and smell the green air stick
to my thirty flesh with these rains,
I can think about this distant planet
and its people we are lost among,
the overlap of corporate nations
profiting from wars—projects to busy
and worry a populace to pharmacies—
I feel no less helpless, no less
inconsequential than a fly
trapped in a barn of spider webs.
drycrikjournal 