santos scribes

I don’t think she’s dying

At least not in the ways we think she is

I think she’s letting us go

Softly, surely

putting some distance

between herself

and the human race

one raging wildfire,

one war torn country,

one (L)Awful Democrazy at a time

She does not need us

not the way(s) we need her

you know?

She does not need a place to hate

or to love

or to hangout,

she is the place

has been a place for 4.5 billion years

This makes her eons smarter than elon

with not a shred of artificial intelligence

She has been self-driven

& driving since before the Dinosaurs

and will be at the wheel of

this Celestial Body

long after we’ve gone

Her executive branch is the Sun

Judicial?

The Moon

And her Council?

8 other completely functioning

orbital planets- dwarfed or otherwise

We (and I use that term loosely this week)

literally have nothing on her

I do catch myself wondering

about her at times though;

wondering what it will feel like

for Her

when we have pillaged

& asphyxiated ourselves completely

left her nothing

but our fossilized plastics,

our hollowed-out warheads,

our bones

And in that hazy place

‘tween sleep and wake

I’m certain I hear her

talking to her compatriots:

‘Whatever you do

don’t let them in.’    

about this poem

as a person I have a tendency to hyper focus on the micro, on the details of a situation. there is something like exhaustive comfort that lives in the paralysis of my fear. writing is where I find my breath, my expansion, my footing with which to step outside of my self, my fear(s) and to live more fully. thanks for reading. xo, s.