Topsy-Turvy

As my naive youth grew eyes that could clearly see

I began to notice how they treated her;

a toy tipped over by a curious child

that was never taught to keep their hands to themselves.

They stripped her soil bare without apology,

tried to fence in oceans.

Ash floats, soft as snow, but twice as deadly.

They pat our heads and say the sky remains above us,

but our compasses no longer point towards true north,

compassion bleeding out through lava flows,

the birds no longer migrating south.

Walls constructed, painted in safety orange,

kindness set ablaze, polluting the air with

"it is what it is" smoke,

as if collapse has become custom,

and silence a virtue.

The ground quakes, cracks,

from all the weight we refuse to carry for each other.

She is not asleep.

She is watching, listening,

waiting to speak in fire

what we have become too proud to whisper

in love.