A Lament of Hope

 
She sleeps … like in some other kind of form  
she weeps even at the gentlest touch, fragile  
as if her world tried to give birth  
but such effort comes to nothing done  
 
On a mundane Sunday morning  
flattened at the altar of cut trees  
I wonder what the padres truly think  
strangely dressed as they are in kevlar  
incense rising from their chainsaws —  
they scatter beliefs across the congregation  
who watch nations sink further in deep psychosis  
 
During this war of attrition  
Mother Earth turns over, maybe in despair,  
cities crumble and nothing seems to wake us more aware  
 
I sit in my sacred circle  
flute in hand that makes no sound  
and blow soft air like a butterfly’s wings  
hoping, hoping …