Consider the earth
a garden waiting for
sunlight and rain to
sustain it or
buried under debris
like a corpse
abandoned to decay.
Do we plow through debris?
Scatter seeds and
fertilize soil?
Or pour more asphalt,
suffocate the life
beneath until it
crumbles to dust?
Earth is a fragile flower,
frozen in winter,
parched in summer,
strangled by weeds,
uprooted by the dogs of
development, swept away
in waves of commerce that
pummel farm, field and
orchard into submission.
No remission.
Subvert subdivisions
with sweet alyssum.
uproot corporate towers
with cornflowers.
Plant prairie clover
to prune back pavement,
and salvia to salve
strip-mined hills
and landfills.
Earth is an oyster
nurturing a pearl inside.
While the pearl remains
it grows more precious.
Most of us pry out the pearl,
discard the oyster,
never realize our treasure
is a dead thing
unable to grow.
© 2017, Phillip T. Stephens
… and the goose that laid the golden egg. Love this poem, Phillip.
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