01 April 2018

Postcard 122

But for us there would have been a forest here.
But for us there would have been a teeming sea.
Is treefall a snap? A bang?
But for us  there would have been rejoicing
-- trunks raised to the dawn and singing out,
and open-faced leaves.
Sparrow-fall is silent is it not?
But for us we would have been noble stewards
of each holy spoken name.
When a final creature earth-fall trundles to does it know,
and is last breath a whisper or a groan?
But for us there would have been substance
beneath each spoken name.
Who will sing out, the stones?
Know there is a sound to nullity
-- a persistent wailing groan.
But for us there'd be no myth.
Is myth just story toward the groan.
Myth of leopards.
Myth of bats.
Myth of death singing emerald frogs
from the cups of leaves.
Myths of leaves.
Myth of morning greeting elephants.
Myth of condors.
Myths of oceans filled with fish.
Myth of whales of ancient geneology
in ledgers of old wooden ships.
Myth of squids, of worms, of eels.
Myth of great white buffalo.
Myth of spiders sharks and snakes
etched in our spines.
Myth of bird or bee or locust blotting out the sunlit sky.
Myth of any place that is not a waste.
Myth lumbering toothless into desolate twilight.
We will, like the stones, cry out in groaning lament

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