Mother. Mother, I am sorry for being a bad son.
I have taken for granted the many risings of the sun.
The tales of old ring true. Myopia stands tall,
Pressing us further into dementia.
Riches deforested, and
All that could be good wasted.
Mother Earth, such is what has become your prospect.
I am sorry.
Nana said two handkerchiefs you were: riddle, riddle.
Commanded to separate, you followed the Word in haste.
You are near yet you are far. Your goal? Humanity to cradle.
But someday there might be none to swaddle
Eight billion souls. It is such a battle,
And we do not make your work simple.
To exist requires that you persist, and we rise
With the heartache, sorrows, and tensions of families and communities that evaporate and
Fall with the condensation of hope, and redemption: new earth and new heavens.
As I reflect on poverty, sustainability, and the great need around the world, I lament and weep for the next generation. I pray that the very fabric that makes the two handkerchiefs of earth and sky is not overused such that the wear and tear we create runs mother earth to death.