Hello folks! Buckle in, strap up or otherwise restrain yourself and make sure you have your safety shears nearby. We're going for a ride! That ride is a poem a day for November. Here, without further ado, is day 1.
This poem was written thirty feet up in a sugar maple tree in a high wind.
Find high ground!
This is the siren call, the screaming instinct in my gut
As I watch this sacred place flood.
A voice that mostly communicates in grunts and still consideres grubs to be fine eating comes up from deep with me and advises that I climb a tree posthaste.
When the tear-stained water kisses its way up the shoreline, where will I hide?
When tides of people with the same ancient, screaming instinct for survival
Come flooding up to find their own high ground
How can I open the gates for them? Offer them a hand up
To stand with me on a tiny island of dryness
How will the prehistoric part of my brain save me
When the ocean is everywhere I look? When everything is left to the whims of the moon and the scourges of the sea-birds?
Seeking meat to pick off the bones of the still dying?
When people are swept in waves off their land and forced against walls and into concentration camps?
Find high ground!
But how can I stand and watch the world sink into the sea?
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