I sit, like a frightened child
And watch in helpless frustration
As that aged, homely face
Crumbles into dust and bone.
And even as she bleeds,
I cut her further still
And clutch her to me
As I carve out more injuries.
Sometimes I’ll cry and mourn
For Mother Earth,
Though her back is broken
She still carries our dead weight.
For as she silent and forgiving,
Bears her wounds, we wound ourselves
And as we await her passing
So too do we await our own.
• “Mother Earth” is from Luke Eastwood’s recently published book of poetry entitled Through the Cracks in the Concrete the Wilderness Grows
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