crucible

listen      the desecrated earth cries out

she heaves in catastrophic tongues

of storms

drought

floods

fires

disease

listen    these are the last moments to act

this is the alarm clock and crucible of endings

this is when the children must teach the adults

there is no option of both survival and failure to act

so pick one, people

choose wisely     not just for yourself

but for all the look-ahead lives to come

 

J. Pratt-Walter NaPoMo 4/1/2023

 

At the Closing

I pick up the worn shovel, handle frosty

and slick.  I feed it to the ground by the mimosa tree

and press hard with my weight on one foot.

The soil yields beautifully.

 

I know very soon, this sacred ground

will receive her of the dark gold hair, the bleached

muzzle, the eyes once alive as obsidian light,

that dog-breath smile.

 

The old girl is shaking this morning

and cannot rise.  I help lift her back end.

Her feet splay out on the floor.  Her eyes are worried,

even afraid.  I caress her bent head

leaning into my leg.  “I know, girl, I know.

Soon.  Will it be today?”  I don’t want to

answer that question yet,

 

but here I am, excavating the ground

between the vegetable garden and my favorite tree,

envisioning motherly soil holding her wasting

frame close, the swirls of her hair trimmed by fallen

 pine needles, her bones and blood that loved us so much

that she will forgive me and forgive me

for bringing that love to a peaceful

close. 

J. Pratt-Walter, © 2022 

Voice in the Seed

When we most need to create peace

is when we least want to.

Anger, hate and shame break us,

denial and despair kindle

their own dark flames,

burning down peace

and its home within our soul.

We are all wearing our motley scars,

our deep festering

emotional puncture wounds,

whether by the hands of others

or by self-infliction,

so cold and solid, an anvil in a glacier.

Someday we will write that last ending.

May it be from that private place of peace

that looks for the good

yet accepts the difficult times too.

Yes, that’s what I hope: Peace asks

that I let myself out on a silk string,

gentle as the voice in the seed

into my own end.

J. Pratt-Walter

NaPoWriMo © 4/14/2019