Here At The Tipping Point

“No strangeness stranger than the strangeness of living things.” – Richard Powers, The Overstory

Managers of the rain,

sending healing potions to neighbors,

intelligence rooting through to ensure

the entire system humming

vibrance blessing

each and every one of us

even as we cling to the idea

a tree is a resource

called “wood”

that mushrooms and lichen

are separate parts, nothing

is connected, for

this whole is

Too intricate, too large

To be grasped by people

who listen to a moron

claiming the climate is great

and forests should be

raked.   Rendered

invisible, their quiet voices

waiting to be heard, and

what if

it’s too late?

Our planet in shambles

haphazard protections

and full-scale climate change —

at the tipping point

where one hard shove in Brazil

and the ancient ones depart.

In our obdurate obstinance

we refuse to acknowledge

the intelligence of anything

that doesn’t resemble our mirrored faces.

We’re tiny flies, pesky and biting

these ancient beings of light

kind, enduring, giving

even to our greed

destroying us all.

And we don’t get to stay

in our electronic cocoons

mindlessly consuming genetically

modified food; we are the squirrels,

we are the birds, flying

fast, oh, god, the rush

this addiction to speed

as we race

Off the precipice,

coasting on the tailwinds

of the ancient forests’ fall.

Inspired by: this article and Shambles, Jewel, Change, Haphazard


Published by

Victoria Stuart

I'm a poet, philosopher and inner seeker. A giver, lover and a healer who studies the heart.

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