on an open road,
hills curve and sigh with the caress of wind.
i watch the great green blooms,
lush and verdant, unruly
knowing their beauty shades homes
marked by dejection.
i wonder how we can reconcile
the whispering black pines that scribble all over heaven
and the incarnadine flowers
with the illness
that pervades these hills and valleys.
how can we reclaim
things that never did belong to us:
our trees studded with emerald and topaz;
our rivers shining like diamonds;
our salamanders dripping with ruby paint –
for purposes of desecration?