Chloropuscle

CHLOROPUCSLE

Since the dawn primeval,
when the great green trees
blacked out the sun,
and all the forests were dense,
there have been
wrinkled old men
who knew
where to find the sky.

Even tiny children know
about wood magic,
from ice glaciers
to rocky coasts,
even in the tame parks,
people prowl about putting
live green things in their mouth.

Giant winged birds,
and hairless rodents
in cages
have memories of it;
the taste of green
moss and leaves and grass and flower stems.

Nature's essence is not red,
it is green,
like penicillin
and ivy.

Life is green.
Green is life.
Chew a leaf,
sucking the pulp out of it
like a cannibal.
Stuff grass in your mouth,
chew on alfafa and rye,
crush a flower in your hand,
sleep in a tree.

Even the sky can be green
like the reptiles
from the dank depths
of a greenish gray sea,
who tired of the eternal swimming
and the darkness,
and squirmed up
on the land,
stood erect,
and claimed the planet
for themselves,
and many others
like themselves.

Green, too,
is the life
after death,
tarter on dead teeth,
mold on sun-bleached bones,
and rot
as flesh and wood decompose
and make their way home
to the earth's green womb.

Green,
green,
green;
My God,
everything is green!
Vegetables and money,
Christmas and the moon,
emeralds and frogs,
jungles and lawns,
fungus between your toes;
green-green,
all green.

So while you are treading
up the yellow brick road
until your feet and hands
are bloody,
take the time
to throw yourself off
that golden infinite stretch
of highway
that goes nowhere
and back,
and lay peacefully
in the green
fields of grass and clover;
hearts full
of green fire,
arms open
to a green sun,
and let the legions tromp by,
their silver armor clanking,
their pilum held high,
because even the ladybug knows
hell
and war
are not green.


Glenn Buttkus 1967