The Earth Will Sing of Trees

In the days of apocalypse,

         the mausoleum now a greenhouse

of shrubs & lilac. Of stargazer

          & wildflower. The berries weap 

in the bones, taste just as sweet

          like candy floss made out of wintergreen.

The days of apocalypse, the streets

         litter in the grass. Still cement, still rust.

Signs that warn one way, four way,

         roundabout, children crossing. No children

not anymore. The stag serves

         deer skull on the half shell. A reef of antler

like cactus spines

         offer yet a moment of life to marigold.

In the days of

         refuge, human waste remains tinged

in red rot. The world forever a landfill,

          cluttered & molded. But yet she will birth

a new child, a second coming, 

         a momentous force like a falling blue marble.