It's 3:23 in the morning,
and I'm awake
because my great, great, grandchildren
won't -let -me -sleep.
My great, great, grandchildren
ask me in dreams
what did you do, while the planet was plundered?
what did you do, when the earth was unravelling?
surely you did something when the seasons started failing
as the mammals, reptiles, and birds were all dying?
did you fill the streets with protest when democracy was stolen?
what did you do
I find I am not so much grieving for my brother, but for the loss of so much, the strange experience of not having a family anymore (which is something many elders have to come to terms with), so many people I've known. I return to familiar places, expecting to find somehow my former self, and she is gone, not there. And most of all, I grieve and pray for every precious being, pristine ocean, seaweed, the pink ladies that come up every August, rain or dry, giving us so much generous grace. Thirsty little deer, seeking a drink at a diminished lake. The grey fox slipping into the compost pile. Redwoods, each one a cathedral, reaching into the sky. Bees. Blackberries, growing beside the road.