Orchards and orchids, the air is filled with contagious scents,
and the colorblind angels of dreams
with wings of red and green are fluttering
around aspiring nectar.
Spring fish are hopping, sparrows are pecking at the carpet,
and I don’t mind that my mailbox is filled with ashes.
It’s mother nature. But if I poetize about her,
that will be me, and nothing to do with her.
I belong to nature, like the Enola Gay, like Teller,
and in her wilderscape,
I might search for peace or even seek salvation,
yet it’s just my eyes, the heart that she created.
She isn’t cruel or harsh, not bountiful or kind,
our thoughts of her are human illusions.
Her ways are foreign,
no less and nothing more.
Today I’ll vacuum out the postal ashes with
my dustbuster™, and if it happens that I
it will be to know that I’ve
learned nothing at all.
Springtime in the land of the platypus, the anthropocene everywhere.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail? (Pink Floyd, Wish You Were Here.) Not without my glasses on.
Anthropocenia, with some close-ups below—computer predictions of possible planetary futures. I don’t like the look of any of them. As soon as I’ve finished burning the newspaper, I’m going to find another computer that makes more agreeable predictions.