Weaving between
broad ferns and
thin trees,
listening to the
ever-present rush
of highway just
beyond this
fledgling forest.
A dreadful chorus
of combustion
and movement
to remind we are
in the center,
the belly
of the beast,
as it were,
where rugged hills
and fractal streams
are churned
into a welter
of caked asphalt
and sterile light.
One might be
tempted to pretend
the rush is but
the sound of water
spilling over high,
clipped cliffs with
a glistening putter.
But in the beast’s belly
we mustn’t linger,
for in self-deceit
lies danger, and
wishful thinking
will not fend off
reality forever.
And reality is so:
our rush is rising fast,
leveling woods, rivers,
and spirits
in its swell.
This fledgling forest
will not last,
nor freedom
where we dwell-
freedom from measured
and sanitized life
grows ever distant
as we drown
wild quiet.
The flood
is coming. ‘
Will you swim
against its current-
Or succumb
to tidal riot?
pm poetry 