WHAT DOES A WILD WOMAN DO?

 

What does a Wild Woman do
when the news continues to astound,
when the very last old growth forests
on her Island - and in her village -
are being cut down,
when covid numbers are starting to climb
after six months of compliance
because people are "getting tired"?
(Oh. Boo-hoo.)

She sighs.
She pours a second glass of wine,
because one doesn't do it any more.
(Careful! She knows that is a very 
slippery slope. Don't worry.
Never more than two.
It's her mantra.)

She turns off the news.
She would like to write a poem
that inspires hope, lifts hearts.
But she is so freaking tired.

Forgive her. She is old.
She has lived several ages.
This one is Too Hard.
(The other ages didn't have trump.)

But she has always
Lived In Hope,
so that flame is still
stubbornly flickering.

What we have is today:
brilliant September sunshine,
(her favourite!),
with blue jays and sunflowers,
hope and grief all mixed together,
because this is where we're at.

One is grateful:
for another generation of
forest defenders following
in her footsteps
at the blockades,
for blue skies, and a sweet September sun,
for dogs with wagging tails
and smiling eyes.
For still being alive, on Planet Earth,
with its clouds, and soft sea breezes,
its sandy beaches stretching to Forever.
For the gift of 74 years
upon this most beautiful
- this struggling-to-survive-
planet.

What does a Wild Woman do?
She prays, she hopes, she dreams,
- she may cry a little -
she writes poems, and,
having done all she can realistically do,
goes off to bed and prays for a
Revolution of Human Consciousness
on the morrow.

for earthweal's open link. Sigh.