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Description
"The time for beauty has ended,"
I whisper.

                    You agree by giving
                                        one simple, swift nod.

"If only the Earth could be mended,"
you murmur.

I wish I could say it began when
the neighbors destroyed one hundred years,
cut down the tree in their backyard, then
built a cerulean pool to hold summer's tears.

"Tuck would be disappointed,"
she points out, as if everything

                      but the here
                                          and the now

was always everlasting-
in reality, little has that privilege.

But then came the oil spills, like ink,
and rain that burned through the veins
of our parasols, wearing away to pink:
breaking the wild wind in our manes.

"I suppose this means that citric acid
is strangling our blood cells."

                    And I know that
                                       it's simply not true,

but sometimes it is difficult to believe that
summertime is just what it used to be.

Description
"The time for beauty has ended,"
I whisper.

                    You agree by giving
                                        one simple, swift nod.

"If only the Earth could be mended,"
you murmur.

I wish I could say it began when
the neighbors destroyed one hundred years,
cut down the tree in their backyard, then
built a cerulean pool to hold summer's tears.

"Tuck would be disappointed,"
she points out, as if everything

                      but the here
                                          and the now

was always everlasting-
in reality, little has that privilege.

But then came the oil spills, like ink,
and rain that burned through the veins
of our parasols, wearing away to pink:
breaking the wild wind in our manes.

"I suppose this means that citric acid
is strangling our blood cells."

                    And I know that
                                       it's simply not true,

but sometimes it is difficult to believe that
summertime is just what it used to be.