Driftwood

Tundra melts, roads buckle, redwoods burn,
deer’s hooves pound empty streets as they flee,
rivers flood or disappear, land becomes desert or sea,
dead birds litter the fairways – spring’s robin won’t return.

Hives are vanquished, plagues spread like cancer,
earth quakes, oceans boil, hawks circle overhead,
air currents move in strange directions, the moon glows red.
We cry out to the wind, but we get no answer.

We waited too long – we thought we’d always be free.
Who gathers pollen from the wild clover now, sad bee?

In a sunny spot beside the shade of an old apple tree,
white-flowered clover blooms expectantly,
shading the firefly as she rests for evening shivaree
and dreams of summer and romance.

The sun sets, and she begins to dance.