on women and CFCs

she tells me she believes
every weather front contains
its own story

and each morning
dewy grass lingers
as a reminder that
an abbreviated history of the earth
has played out while we slept.

she smiles and i quiver inside,
flooded with images of
the countless icebergs that will soon
lumber up on arctic beaches
and collapse into thunder,
never to be reconstituted.

the sand beneath them
drowned, turned to seabed.
the rocks on the shore now
battered by the rising waves,
relentlessly bullied into sand.

each grain a new birth,
its own trembling world.

from the november 2006 issue of High Altitude Poetry

read more of my poems from HAP here.