Hubris

Occasional Poem

Hubris

The only habitable planet,
in the last solar system in the universe.
Even with the weight of all history behind it,
remains a peaceful place—
home to precise poets,
book writers like intent insects.
Where occasional weather paints
clouds of every formation.

Small children dust innocence
like flour before pastry.
Seas fold with an intense memory
for lost animals,
or lovers with hearts like keys turning.

Playwrights wring the human condition
from small stages—rapt actors,
imaginations.
Congregations are built carefully,
with the delicate mortar of forgiveness.
Harmonies like wind, waves, arias
resonate through streets,
audiences, colonnades.

The last solar system
lights colour-strewn meadows
to the tune of dancing bees,
to the rhythm of birds.
Requiring no reason to be
save the purest arc of flight,
the necessity of parenthood.

Trees live in small increments,
worn to fit the landscape.
Whales washed in moonlight
sing deep complications,
free to listen.
Mist stretches from antler to antler.
In northern reaches,
stags dream of blessed skies.


While massed herds sweep plains
at the equator.
Wildebeest plead for birthing grounds,
with predators all lazy waiting.
Animals adapted to cold
breathe whispers.
A lone wolf lopes out of its own mystery,
tight to the hillside,
soundless.

Cook fires sparkle—
a haven for eyes at dusk
as the night creatures
repeat their questions.
And in the deep deep south—
silence,
like an antidote.

What would we do,
arriving for the first time?
How long before the bombs begin
to fall?