It's Not You

If you feel a stinging in the breeze
singeing your eye with drops of onyx,
it's not you.
If you feel a throbbing
like broken valves in the heart of the earth,
it's not you.
If you hear weeping in the song of a sparrow
and deep within that a dolphin's pant,
it's not you.
If you can't scent old salt among the reeds
or fishy seaweed in the brackish driftwood,
it's not you.
If the waters look empty and tears feel dry,
it's not you.
If you want to say, "Don't cheer me up.
Don't try to make me happy.
Just let me be sad today.
I have some grieving to do,"
it's not you.
If the whiteness of the sky looks belly-up
and the world, it's body, trembles
with a slight but dangerous fever,
it's not you.
And walking, sighing, praying doesn't help,
it's not you.
And rain clouds gather like a council of elders
furrowing their brows in prophecies that won't speak
because they come too late, too late now,
it's not you.
Don't worry, it's not you.
It's all of us, and what we've done
to our home.

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