With love for all of you, on this the eve of May Day…
Fresh as the day the world was made,
This morning: dew-spattered through feather fans
Of foxtail and wild rye. Mars is low on the horizon, for once. Still
As a caught breath, the day, hushed,
Holds for a slow-golding time, the rose hints
Of bold and bright to come, of music
Yet to be made, dances old as the village, new as tomorrow’s milk.
How can it be, four billion, five hundred million years, the old
and battered Earth,
Veteran of ice and fire, meteor, petroleum, stupidity, avarice, ignorance
How can it be, this innocence: ryetops waving hello, good morning,
Beads of crystal dew filled with beauty wash,
The bright face of the Golden One coming,
Bringing suit to his blue lover again,
And Earth meeting him with an armload of flowers
As if all the grief were undone, as if
(As it is)
The sorrows and losses don’t matter, really,
Not in the face of this coming morning
When Earth says Yes
Sun says I Am Here
The great rounding of things stately in its time,
The lone bird calling to a lightening sky:
He is risen
He is risen
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When I start thinking too much about stupidity, avarice and greed, I find it comforting to remember that our species has been occupying this planet for hardly more than a blink of time, and it seems unlikely that we’ll clutter up the place for much longer. It remains to be seen, if we’re a “failed experiment” or not; we may yet evolve into some wiser version of ourselves and save ourselves from extinction, but that hope seems faint, most days.
The planet, though? She’ll do fine. May this day remind us, again, that we are hers, she is not ours, and we thank her for another Spring.