Postscript

Postscript BY MARIE HOWE What we did to the earth, we did to our daughters one after the other. What we did to the trees, we did to our elders stacked in their wheelchairs by the lunchroom door. What we did to our daughters, we did to our sons calling out for their mothers. What we did to the trees, what we did to the earth, we did to our sons, to our daughters. What we did to the cow, to the pig, to the lamb, we did to the earth, butchered and milked it. Few of us knew what the bird calls meant or what the fires were saying. We took of earth and took and took, and the earth seemed not to mind until one of our daughters shouted: it was right in front of you, right in front of your eyes and you didnt see. The air turned red. The ocean grew teeth.

all we have to do

 

all we have to do

 

"All we have to do is nothing," a mountain to make move, a silent decree in the chaos we groove.

"All we have to do is something," a wild ocean's wave without a sail's direction, lost in the tempest's navigation.

"All we have to do is anything," echoes in the ether, a boundless expanse, a puzzle piece in life's grand dance.