Sea once a continent of solid ice,
now a dull web of jagged synapses,
nerve cells spent of energy, dendrites spliced
like decaying claws, gravity’s lapses
their only chance at connection. The bear
balances on a curled dissolving slab,
stained fur now lighter than this foothold where
its once massive frame stalls—thin base a scab
soon to crease, crack and break apart. What shall
we do to save it before the armies
arrive to kill for oil and gas? When all
that’s left is mud and blood? Advise us, please,
when to tell children this horrid story
of earth’s destruction, and how we’re sorry.
Roger Armbrust
January 20, 2015
