“Mother Earth’s Breath”
by Bea Garth, copyright 2020
For a moment the Earth
takes an unexpected breath
as her humans, that most troublesome of progeny,
squirrel in their rectangular hovels
while porpoises and swans begin to play in sunlit canals
and geese roam the streets of Venice.
In the forests, bears play with their cubs
among yellow blossoms and bright green grasses
in meadows usually populated by cars
with humans poking their heads out, ogling,
then trample over new growth, throw trash,
make fires, blare raucous music.
Here now are only the sounds of rustling blue jays,
chipmunks chattering, bees and flies buzzing,
sparrows chirping, mocking birds, robins, cicadas singing,
the sudden thump and snarl of a mountain lion upon its prey
while deer roam down Main Street in the town nearby,
nibbling on roses and other ornamental bushes.
Even the whale begin to rule the seas again,
for this time out of time
no longer needing to escape nets
or having their senses scrambled by sonar
as ships navigate the oceans’ expanse.
It will take a while, however, for their bellies to fill,
the whales too long on an unnatural diet, the plankton and krill reduced
as the oceans continue to acidify, plastic all too often a deadly morsel.
Mother Earth weaves her repairs such as she can, clears the skies,
while punishing those humans, having sent them inside to their rooms.
But will it be long enough for them to get it, she wonders,
or must she be even more severe, next time?