I scent change being carried
On the fragrance of this
Summer breeze, I look round these
Trees, grass, hills, know their yearly
Greening, bursting, is becoming
Fleeting and will not endure.

Beyond the black line of the mountain
Where the sun slides to
His rest, there is poison seeping,
Slipping under us unheeded  - we are
Creators of our monsters, fitting
Mirrors to our vanity:

And we do not care - the bad air
In our cities; dirty waters choking fish;
The fire for money in men's bellies as they
Grind our woods for toilet paper; plastic
Stewardship as mice run blind from
The harvester - blindly we sever, blithely

The last links in an ancient chain. It will not
Be long before the last plank is sawn
By our own hands, and air will stew
And die, no green leaves to pacify. We  will
Die in surprise, bereft of all the bounty gone,
Squandered, God's gift forlorn.
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