It's Still Life

And After the Flail Mower, the Wind Said …

the earth knows grief—
how it pools in your palms like rainwater,
heavy with the weight of severed roots
and the stunned silence of nests
torn open too soon.

You are allowed this sorrow.
It means you remember
what the world tries to numb:
that every blade of grass has a voice,
that even the smallest life
casts a shadow.

So listen—
beneath the fumes,
under the butchered stems,
the mycelium threads stitching
their rebellion.

The bees will return,
not because they forget,
but because they are stubborn
as spells whispered into soil.

And you will not paint
the destruction,
but the after—
the first defiant dandelion
splitting the pavement,
a shrew looking for
somewhere to bed down.

Grieve. Then rise.
The earth needs those
who ache with her.