Am I

I am.

 

I am made from molecules of gas that coalesced in space millennia ago.

I am the caretaker to a global garden of life-- but 

am I succeeding at being its guardian?

 

The waves of my hair roll and rush 

as I spin and spin ‘round the sun, 

performing a galactic ballet day to day. 

My skin weathers with age but rejuvenates

the plateaus and slopes of my shape.

 

They need me-- even if they don’t know that 

I am the one who allows

     the leopard and larkspur, 

             the dik-dik and dingo, 

                    the mantis and man to coexist.

     

I am the one who 

     proffers water in the palms of my hands.

            supplies fuel from the pores of my skin.

                 synthesizes nutrients that give sustenance.

                          manages the cycles that keep life balanced.

 

But balanced it is no longer because of man. 

 

Its stream of consciousness and loop of mind. The labyrinth of its brain--

What a creature!

Its ability to develop and destruct. To plan and execute-- What a beast!

 

Man wears on my health and I struggle to maintain my garden.

Parts are wilting while their neighbors prosper. 

I run and spin to keep this world running even as the homo sapien hampers my efforts. 

 

I feel carved out like a piece of clay to be shaped as desired, 

a medium whose surface is altered for the sake of beauty or convenience.

 

I wince at each 

      crack of the gun 

and the following 

      crack of the bone 

and the tearing of some innocent’s flesh. 

I weep at the needless loss of creatures 

as their homes are reduced to rubble.

I hear the last sway of the tree 

when the blade splits their bark and also splits me apart. 

Am I failing to be these species’ provider, protector, when the world around is turning on them?

 

I have witnessed the rise of mankind but do not fault it for evolving.

Its pedestal grows higher and higher 

as its inventions lift it further and further 

from its roots-- from me. 

 

Some may see man’s rise to the top as survival of the fittest-- but is it?

Is it, when the products of its own intelligence prove perilous for itself?

How far is too far, man?

When everything falls apart because you have gone too far?

 

I am peering over a precipice that portends what will be when I am no more. 

It is a world without life, a world without me.

It is a world where once upon a time, one species brought upon its own demise.

But I can’t communicate with man because it refuses to listen.

 

Its mother is dying.

 

Dead. 

 

This poem is about: 
Our world

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