Air Black
Dancing leaves fade to a city's thick, settled haze of toxic scum.
Read more →From society's death knell, a fig of hope blossoms, nourished by nature's quiet, enduring promise
Each arrest
may feel
like a death knell,
every baton wielded—
the devil’s pitchfork,
I put down the paper,
look out, see a cloud,
even if this one,
may not rain,
there is water enough, still,
for a fig to grow in my yard,
discard
its dry leaves,
its fruit to ripen,
there is hope yet,
this too may pass,
as long as
the environment
holds.