I am scared for my nephew.
Indeed, for the coming generations,
I am terrified
that they may never come to know
the clean smell of a forest
wet with new rain,
or the sound of a cardinal's song
breaking the snowy hush
of a January morning.
-- So wrapped up in, so fixed upon a television
broadcasting images
of the apocalypse of beauty,
of replicated emotion,
of fabricated belief.
-- I hear my nephew ask,
"What's a rainbow?"