I broke down and burst into tears today after reading about the now-inevitable climate catastrophe that will ravage this world.
I was eating my lunch in the field where I toil to make this land sustainable and friendly to nature, and –like most things that make a 41 year-old man weep with shuddering sobs, it was a confluence of inputs that brought the wracks out of me.
The juxtaposition of these serene, temperate, Pacific Northwestern rainforests against my greater awareness of the global south and the disasters we've wrought there; the weak noise and relative dearth in numbers of what once were the omnipresent, buzzing, busy summertime insects of my youth; my own filthy, skin-torn, aging white hands grasping the device whose overseas construction and abuses contributed to all of this.
My own relative personal powerlessness to change it.
It's the prerogative of the poet to weep for the world. My partner says that I shouldn't cry so much, that I don't deserve it. But of course I do. I'm a citizen of earth. I'm a spirit in transit. I celebrate, I fight, I mourn, and I'll die. Having lived will be the greatest gift. Dying with all of our failures is the curse.
I can only carry the fire for as long as I can hold it. I mean to feel it all in the meantime.
It's what I am.
DirtWood /
npub177…hh3x3
2024-05-15 22:49:30
Author Public Key
npub177pn5em5dughj5xryjtjw00rtrzdleymsa9dt54p97fxeajrnvyqzhh3x3Published at
2024-05-15 22:49:30Event JSON
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