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Oh, mother earth,
Is this global warming
or climate change?
Atop this particular Goldilocks
planet, on this particular 22nd
day of February, in this city
this particular hour
: "Frankly, my dear, I don’t
give a damn." I’m freezing
My toes are cold. Where
the hell is the Congress
Did it think the Tennessee
senator's words an inconvenient
truth? I’ve got ice dams in
my living room Snow statues
surround my home. Oh, mother
earth, To lie down on one
of your sizzling beaches. With no
Headless Coptic Christians
in orange death masks,
Where the hot orange sun
never glistens on freshly
red-tainted steel. My gutters
are filled with frozen things
Sixteen minutes exposure to
life-giving air causes corporeal
damage Eight feet of God’s
cold stuff already on the ground,
But Boston
is a tough nut to
crack.
Oh, mother earth,
Americans have hardy souls.
Terrorists, beheadings, cruel wars
Snow cannot stop Us. Frozen crystals
of atmospheric vapor have their
redeeming qualities, although to this
particular poet, in this particular state
of mind, on this particular Sunday,
they seem few and far between
in the New England tundra.
Gil Hoy is a regular contributor to The New Verse News. He is a Boston trial lawyer and studied poetry at Boston University, majoring in philosophy. Gil started writing his own poetry and fiction a year ago. Since then, his poems and fiction have been published in multiple journals, most recently in Third Wednesday, Stepping Stones Magazine, The Potomac and The Zodiac Review.