Just because it’s green doesn’t mean
we can eat it. Nor will it provide
respite from the hammer of weather.
Pressing a bill beneath the soil
will not bear fruit – or
vegetable, nut, seed.
A green suit, if we’re handy,
may parry the elements for
a short day;
maybe, too, a crude pillow can
be fashioned from our pile, but
weather will pilfer and harry,
until our heads rest again
on the dulled Earth.
The boiling wind will boister, as
we fail to sleep, that
for the chaotic, systematic gang-rape
of our own Mother, on whose
dry, misshapen breast we still lie,
I wrote the first line of this in English Class at about 13 years old. I didn’t discover till some years later the famous Cree Native American Prophecy, which says pretty much the same thing in different words.