Focus, Spring

What’s hanging in the balance here,
this planet we misname as earth,
when seas topped mountains, they its bed,
then green and pleasant, for its turf,
but born blue cradle, life rebirthed,
a cycle onwards, rough terrain.

The dial, it hovers, waiting turn
of mind and culture register,
some due weight given to its cause,
while man kind only to his own,
though all that’s owned, joint stewardship,
and daily undermined for wealth.

As Eve draws near, a clearer voice –
for lunar’s cycle moves the tide –
if nature heard, some wayward learn;
but is the dusk too far advanced,
those adamantine chains too rust,
the diamond facet hard to cut?

Maybe the newborn lust for life
will cry out loud, not whimper soft,
awaken those whose slumbers last,
and force them rise and too attend.
All held meanwhile in this suspense,
our focus, spring, anticipate.