Genesis

We were guardians
of the underbrush,
our veins of the pine,
our swords of the fern,
molded in moss and
mulch, adorned by
nature’s syrupy scent.

But we left the foliage to
bristle with fire. The
Mother’s lungs roared
in pain, and our toes squelched
in the mud her tears manifested.
Our noses turned to the foggy
stratosphere to keep from
dripping remorse and responsibility.

(His searing tongue will lick all of our chins)