It’s wasted magic, to walk the forest
and not see rustled inhalations
from what holds us—pressed to her
like rooted evergreens. We are divine
yet lowly, scrounging and working for all
her leavings—precious earthworms/inchworms
that sing earworms. We shape her 'til she swallows
us. Each ocean a heart, every star an eye,
we twist to claw our way in deeper.
Plastic surgery for the mother with concrete
scars, tumor high-rises smother with false light
as we bend for profits that used to grow from trees
and can’t pay for love or clean air. Favors revoked
from the adults we are. It’s almost our bedtime.
I'm starting to write a bit more about environmental justice, but I don't know if I can add anything of interest to the discussion.