let the green earth overtake the pavement
paralyze highways still lined with cars
those totems of petroleum-fueled religion
let plants’ roots grow up and over skyscrapers
drag stone from stone and break glass
let vines obscure airports and train stations
fill mines and factories with flowers and pine cones
darken the windows of power plants
spread fungal connections farther and wider
free water to flow where it will
let unharvested trees grow old and tall
let fish flourish as whales sing the end of nets
bring all commerce to a standstill
so that we can silently
ponder what we are doing
what we have done

Look what’s out back, he says,
turning from the coffee pot, and we both
move closer to the windows. A young buck
stands near the compost pile,
turns his head, with its bony coronet,
to look around our yard, his temporary realm.
He takes a few steps,
holds his nose up in the air.
He turns his back
to sample the grass of the lawn
before moving into the woods again,
showing us only his lean yearling rump
and soft tail. He is done with us.