Sanctuary

image borrowed from bing

Sanctuary 

In my waking dreams

the sky is kelly green

like the creatures from dank depths

of greenish-grey seas who tired

of swimming in the dark trenches

and squirmed up on the land,

stood erect and claimed the planet

for themselves;

since

     the

       dawn

           primeval

                     when

                          the

                            great

                                 trees

                                     blacked

                                              out

                                                   the

                                                      sun

there have been some who understood

that nature’s essence is not red,

it is green

vegetables, weeds, clover, emeralds, frogs, jungles, moss

and fungus

between the toes of tigers,

in the whirls of the burls of beech, birch

and butternut giants;

green-green, all green, and

even after the coitus of death, 

that last great mortal orgasmic gasp,

leaves tarter on dead teeth,

mold on sun-bleached bones,

dances to the rhythms of rot

as flesh and wood decompose

making their malachite way back

to the bosky womb they blossomed from,

do yourself and the planet a favor--

rinse the blood off your hands and feet,

halt your virulent voracious journey

long enough to lie down in

a soft field of clover, loose

the green fire circulating in your chest,

open your loving arms to a green sun

and do not move to join the red legions

that will tramp by, 

their silver armor clanking,

their deadly pilum held high

because

even the dust mites could tell you--

hell and war

are not

green.

Glenn Buttkus

May 2012

Posted over on Magpie Tales 120

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