She’s watched us pave the orchards,
drain the rivers like warm beer,
name every mountain after a man
who never climbed it.
But still she throws a sunrise like dice
and lets light land
on all of us.
Even the bastards.
The trees don’t fret who planted them.
They just grow.
The birds don’t care who’s listening.
They just sing.
And the dirt?
The dirt keeps catching us
when we fall face-first
from our own cleverness.
She should’ve thrown us out
like cigarette ash,
but she keeps us around—
maybe out of habit,
maybe for the comedy.
Still, every now and then,
a child plants a seed,
a drunk returns a stray dog,
a man writes a poem
without knowing why.
And she sighs,
a little softer,
as if to say,
“Close, kid.
Try again tomorrow.”
