Blow

Earth keeps telling us
We are hurting Her

We keep toiling
Scratching Her skin

It is our itch
This historical restlessness.

How we trim
The hedges

Try to tame
The edges

Of an ancient realm
Which we claim

To domain
To control.

Seemingly endless
Treasures

Thresholds explored
For temporary gains

This age-old method
To our madness.

Earth says
Here's a token

As the wind blows
Its unsuppressed rage

Blow

It attacks the fresh load
of laundry

The franctic waving of arms and legs
In its wake

(Spring will come and place
another flower in the barrel)

When will we
Wake up?