Why? When we were children Were we given A pile of wooden blocks? To help us count Add up, take away, Spell our name and scream it out. To build and balance As tall as possible a tower. And when it fell over Rebuild and rebalance. But so many of us just Threw the blocks at each other And cried when one hit us In the eye
So- When we were given the oceans and sky, It wasn't long before we had Ruined more than we had learned- A continent of gnarled, congealed plastic Floating in our graying heaven's reflection. And given the forests, We build either twelve-room-summer homes or else So many million disposable chopsticks. We grew up unlearning and grow old crying while Our children ask us Why? Why? Why? Were you so selfish for so long? Because Children, blocks, don't come with instructions.