I had buried the sun into the earth,
the moon, nestled tight in clouded dream,
my cat left curled before the hearth
next to a displaced pot of cooling tea.
A hooded lantern and wrinkled staff
held by hands similarly styled,
in days long past, carried many a task
for the untamable, unnamable wild.
Drawn lantern shudders in this wood,
polite, remembering once being afraid;
low branches kissing where then I stood
so I stretch my neck to nick their face.
Now a smile flushes my youth,
a leaf floating across a pond,
the pines before me stoop, in truth,
to mirror me before I'm gone.
Gnarled and pleated, the hands that herd,
lie me down at the bank of a stream,
I do not drink to slake my thirst
I drink in respect to the dream.
Paint me the singing wilderness,
lead me over moss-covered bars,
free me from metered emptiness
beneath these dancing stars.
A chorus of all those who thrive,
make home within the thicket,
invite me down to sit inside
stringed pre-show of sir cricket;
a fiddler of much renown,
for interrupting speaker silence,
they say he looks for ways to drown
the wisdom of his guidance.
Next begins the warbler’s wail
as fireflies light the stage,
the moon emerges from her veil
to turn the conductor’s page.
The croaking of a frog, alive,
deep mahogany is the bass,
the percussion of a tortoise dive
echoes through the space.
A ridge where once tall pines took
to watch this merry band
now sentinel to which I look
as, baton in hand, I stand.
This finale is for unmarked graves
of which this forest holds many,
and celebration of all the days
of which I have had plenty.
My time has come, and so they sing
as I lay down beside the brook;
soft is the moss, quiet the strings
and warm my sheltered nook.
Only when one comes to listen,
and sits quietly on the hill,
can you hear the tiny musicians
playing the same song still.
Wilderness to the people of America is a spiritual necessity,
an antidote to the high pressure of modern life,
a means of regaining serenity and equilibrium...
only when one comes to listen,
only when one is aware and still,
can things be seen and heard.
― Sigurd F. Olson
Current EPA (Environmental Protection Agency) admin in the United States, Scott Pruitt, has been actively undermining the missions of America's National Park System by eliminating protections for park waterways and drinking water as well as pollution reduction requirements during his short time in office.
Pruitt, an appointee of Republicans and president Trump, has continued spearheading this climate questioning agenda even as recent emails have linked his business ventures during his time as Oklahoma Attorney General to many in the fossil fuel industry.
This isn't so much a call to action as it is a reminder that if we do not protect these parks, these forest, we will be left without a spiritual link to the Earth, places of pristine beauty that people like Sigurd Olsen lived their entire lives to protect.
The National Park Conservation Agency mailing list can be a great organization to stay up to date on legislation and sweeping political changes threatening the environment should you wish to be updated on when to contact your local congressperson and senator.
Written for free-verse poetry maven 
thank you for the read
header photo base is public commons
