Do not worry about our planet,
Our one mother and only home.
She's seen far worse than ourselves.
So do not worry about our planet.
Nature the midwife will right the earth,
Restore her vigor, and enforce new rigor
From our wasting, reckless hand.
When all human corpus have joined the land
For some, our final story is a sorry matter.
But do not worry about our planet.
For nature will once again amend the latter.

A sheer cliff pueblo
Hollowed out of city air,
Sun baked, rain washed,
Where there is no glow
About a communal fire.
No medicine man
To blow healing smoke
Over an ailing soul.
No gathering of elders.
Where story telling is machine work,
And watch listeners,
Can barely recall a flickering tale.

Dare I say it,
The oasis,
More like a billabong,
Is love.
And every thirsty beast wants a drink.
The water hole is muddy and dangerous,
Nonetheless,
With mixed success,
Each will take their chances.
Some are killed outright
By a crouching tiger or hidden gator.
Others get a couple of quick sips
But are run off by fear.
And a lucky few
Drink deeply,
Sustaining them for years.

In youth,
Love expressed is mother tongue,
But in age wise love is polyglot.
Words of youthful love are hot,
While in age intricate talk ensues.
Youthful love does natures bidding,
But in age love is free to love itself,
And thus be one shared by two.

Married at fourteen,
A whisper in a ram's horn,
From ****** bliss
To spit up and ****
In less than a year.
Add ten more years,
Seven babies,
And fifty tons of laundry.
"Ma,
"Da says the taters gone bad."
Could death be more happy?

Your night is the day's embryo,
You wake,
You're  a parent to a new day.
You have responsibilities!
No time to do a zombie walk 'til noon.
Time for two, three, lines of finity;
It will jack y0u high on impermanence.
Certainty has never insured tomorrow.
This day is your last banquet?
Fill your plate, but not full.
Do not dine alone.
Say grace, for you are the Pope of the hour,
Your awareness is a sacrament
That blesses everything you see and touch.
Soon your day will die in a ****** cloud
Leaving you with both less and a little more.

This morning's dew point,
Lower than inside air,
Silver gray condensate,
Shades window glare.
Like a night beat cop
Patrolling lover's park,
Fogged windows beacon passions' pant,
Sync-ed heaves chug parallel tracks,
Engine-caboose lurch to subsiding sighs.