Feather Dust

The geese have gone to ground,

there's more water in the air than air.

The new lakes used to be fields

and the trees were taller than fires.

 

The river of opinion has flooded it's banks,

shouldering responsibility.

The sound of a footprint sucks muck

from a lost path.

 

The sun, indifferent to weather,

makes the green leaf lean into its arc.

The sky has seen it all,

and squinted in ths smoke.

 

What's man made hasn't made man happy.

What man's neglected, takes revenge.

The garden begs the gardener to return

the soil, the seeds of discontent, swell to bursting.