Only Greed

Gold dapples the quiet pockets
Where the elm and oak get caught,
Like mottled marionettes,
Lemon-lime slaves
Swirling… kept from the sea.

Do leaves belong to rivers?
Does wood belong to the soil and the sea?
I never see leaves on the shore.

I am in a moment, a sort of trance, transfixed,
By the light as it winks from sun to water to sky.
It is quiet here, just a myriad of eddies,
Of liquid tourmaline,
Slipping over the lichen and moss green rocks,
Around deep teal pools
Where fish ponder hooks,
And ghostly crawdads snap at their own reflection.

I am just minutes from a freeway,
Miles from an EPA super-site.
I am seconds from a link, and 200 miles
From BP’s obscenity… the suicide bombers of oil.

Gold dapples the quiet pockets
While a rapist runs free and gloats.
It is quiet here, just a myriad of eddies,
While tsunamis of oil ruin lives and generations.
While journalists rail to a nation of numbness,
To a corporate Congress whoring dollars for votes.

Do leaves belong to rivers?
Does wood belong to the soil and the sea?
I never see leaves on these shores…
Only oil, only greed.