Primary Succession

My traditions lie like a forest after a fire,

Cracking and black and unfruitful.

The life that once chattered and sang

Whether the sun shone bright above

Or stars twinkled to their tunes

Scurried off to protect themselves,

Leaving the house vicitm to the elements.

Despite seeing the world around me,

The Mayans may have struck bigger

Than any Gregorian or Julian calendar

Ever dreams since it still stands, evidence

Of the union of arithmetic and faith

Raising nature to work for society

Yet never bend to break under pressures.

How I wish nature raised me like Tarzan

(Maybe with thirty-percemt less racism),

So the smoldering trees and blackened soil

Would not ignite such fear and pain and pining

For better days that feel uncertain

Despite the gleam on the horizon.

As the story goes, the ancestors came in boats,

Severed the cord and spilled the blood

Of the children of the earth centuries ago

And used the red earth to make brick for houses,

Roads, infrastructure, indoor plumbing,

Washing machines and ovens, things we thank

The Heavens and kiss God's feet for, and laugh

That we could not live without these blessed items

Built by pioneering pillagers' slaves and children

Of the land stolen and violated and trampled.

Winter lie on the horizon, and the chill wraps us.

Lying on the warm ground, savoring the embers,

I dream of a day again when the vibrant forest

Lives and sings and dances once again.