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| Image source: Ecologist |
Tomato plants droop,
the apple trees are dropping fruit,
and the large leaves of shade plants are dusty and limp.
I scoop up the thick air
and clamp my hands to my face.
My nostrils flare
working to breathe the nothing good
that sits heavy in my palm.
I try again,
wave at the air, stretch out my arm,
as a magician about to reveal the trick.
I cup my fingers to grasp what is a right,
a right to breathe fresh air.
But, I am a magician with no magic.
The sheep cry in the pasture for green
soft, July grass.
And I have no magic.
Who does?
Who will be the one to deliver fresh air and water?
Perhaps I need a permit from Monsanto, or P&G, or is it Exxon?
Becky Harblin lives on a small 'farm' in upstate New York. She works as a reflexologist, and artist: sculptor, painter and poet. She takes much of her inspiration from her surroundings. Her poetry has been published on New Verse News, and in a book by Glover Publishing titled Eating the Bread of this World which will be released in September.
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