Like all stars, an explosion into
red is indeed, the future.
Eventually, we are all vapor.
And one day, we will look up
and the expansion of gasses
will flood our vision and
burn our skin and shoot
our blood and bones like
steam escaping through
the crust of a volcano.
But, this earth will surely collapse
long before our own sun
expands into a red giant
sucking the last of our
family trees into space.
This mother aches
from the fire of her core
to the dust under my feet yet,
still springs up green grasses
and perfect petals on each
continent that we are slowly
incinerating with our
gasses and garbage and
retrieval of natural resources.
She has given and given.
She has allowed you to blow the
blooms off dandelions since
you were a child.
Created rivers and streams for your
feet at the top of mountains.
Delivered white sand where the sea
kisses land, greeting you
each and every time
you arrive — with your beach towels
and sunscreen and coolers of beer.
She cradles you under stars and
moon and sends sweet breezes
over your cheeks on summer nights
when you’re riding in the canyon
with the windows down. Music loud.
Look, here are two perfectly
planted trees to hold your
hammock while you read.
Maybe, we could last 5 billion
more years in her arms —
on this matriarch of a planet
who endlessly seeks to
make us happy and whole.
Maybe, now is the time to ask her consent
before we enter another domain
that she must guard to sustain herself.
She is tired.
Maybe, now is the time we let her rest.
In The Way 
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