Read at the Climate Strike in Brattleboro, Sept. 20.

Whispers of Fire

Ever since we were young, we've heard whispers.
Whispers not meant for such tender ears,
but now we understand and we are taking up the torch.
How do you expect us to trust you when all you've done is tell us
“someday you will be able to make choices, someday”.
We whisper, huddling in the dark, burning with quiet flames,
waiting for “someday”. Spoiler Alert, “someday” never comes,
and now we are burning, fueled with rage,
when and where do we draw the line?
We draw it here and we draw it now.
Climate change is no longer a far-off threat,
it is knocking directly at our front door! We need to take action,
and not soon, NOW. Why should we pay off all your gambling,
just to live in this once beautiful world, that you trashed?
Teach us about the past, tell us how this issue was passed

Her skin is soil and stone and ancient fossil, blanketed in the greenery of meadows and valleys that form her island shape. Palm trees sprout in her cupped hands, rivers of fingers stretching away with muddy, rushing haste. Vegetation thrives as she lies against the ocean floor, seaweed hair floating languidly around her cragged head. A range of mountains curves across her spine. One, the tallest, sits like a majestic jewel inlaid at her chest, rising stolidly atop her beating heart as she stretches towards the horizon.

She is older than eons. She has seen travelers come and go, nothing more than blips in her eyes. She does not mind as they drink the water from her lakes and eat the fruits that sprout amidst her rich green flora; building unobtrusive huts, then shacks, then structures more complex. They often plant new trees, replenishing her surface with growth—as she provides for them, so they return the favor.