Song of Chlorus

Song of Chlorus

Chloropuscle II

Since the dusky dawn
primeval,
when great tree giants
greened out the sun,
and all the forests
bristling with the sharpness
of conifer
and the softness
of deciduous mantle,
stood dense, trunk to trunk,
there have been sapian homo,
who knew exactly
where to find
the sky.

The tiniest of children who
were wrenched into this plane
already knowing
about God
and wood magic, are
watching with toddler’s eyes, as
people prowl
in parks putting
things alive
and green
into their pie holes.

I am telling you
that huge winged birds,
hairless rodents,
wild and domestic,
have memories
of it, the tingle
and the taste
of green
shoots, moss, leaves,
grass and flower stems.

Nature does not bleed.
It’s essence is not red,
it’s green;
and so is
life;
all green,
if you look
unblinkingly
as you chew a leaf,
sucking the pulp
out of it
like a vegenimal
cannibal,
like a combine
with ears.

Somewhere near
even the sky
can be green,
with electric emerald
sunsets,
slick, textured, scaly,
like those cousin reptiles
who journeyed far
from the dankest depths
of a grayish-green sea,
who tired of
the swimming
and the darkness;
who squirmed up proud
on the land,
struggling to stand
erect and claiming
the whole planet
for themselves,
and many others
who would soon follow.

Green too
is the life between life,
and the life
after death,
with hard data already extant
as tarter on teeth,
mold on sun-bleached bones,
fungus on driftwood;
and the beauty
of rot
as flesh and wood decompose
and make their way
home;
past the expressway
of magma,
all the way to
the earth’s centerfold,
that verdant steaming
womb.

The girl
with the green eyes
smiles from the green poster,
instructing us
to think green,
to live green,
to breathe green;
and we do,
or try to.

Rebirth, children,
that is our reward
when we partner up
with our loving planet.

But in the meantime
try not to forget
as you are traveling
up another yellow brick road,
pounding your feet in Pumas
until the blood gushes
from beneath the toenails,
that you certainly can
and probably should
leap off that infinite stretch
of noway
that goes nowhere
in no time,
in real time,
and lie
peacefully in the green
fields of wildflowers and clover;
heart full to bursting
with green fire;
arms wide open
to a sun of grass.

Yes,
just let the legions
tramp by,
with their silver armor
clanking,
and their lethal pilum
held high,
for even the sweet ladybug
on your chin
knows that
hell and war
are not green.

Glenn A. Buttkus February 2008