The land is crying for us to care
care that blood waters its soil more than rain
The seasons have shifted, but humanity stays the same
 
hurting the hurting
 
Our withering sensibility,
like dry eucalyptus ready to catch a flame
 
If it all burns, let our succumbing smoulder
and smoke smother everything
 
Be done with the dying
 
A cocoon is not a coffin for the butterfly,
but a temporary holding
 
In the morning, when heat signals our unfolding,
the children will rise
 
like mushrooms miraculously appearing from the darkness,
connected to everything
 
Like green soldiers—strong in trunk and deep in root—
they will thrive like we always promised.
 
With lily pond quiet fears and dragonfly dreams
rippling sonar signals into pregnant space,
they will rise
 
Rise with the white cockatoo,
who carries freedom on its wings
and a song in its lungs
so penetrating we’ll have no choice but to join in
 
with the crying
with the caring
with the change