How warped
we have become
that one’s no longer one.
Necks outstretched but bound
forever gulping air,
this elastic reach from
head to heart
is striking the deep yell dumb.

One’s no longer one;
the cry is dry-mouthed,
fearful, bitter-tongued;
its sadness rots the teeth
and cracks the lips
of mouths that dare not
utter it.

There is an understanding
that is not being understood,
an aged woman in a tree
bellowing a warning down to us
of floods and mudslides
roaring down the hill but we
are more preoccupied with
slicing up her oak for fuel.

One’s no longer one,
she weeps into
the waning green.
You’ve longed so long
to be all different,
all little ones,
individual and round.

But split off from your whole
you have become so very small,
ions spinning unearthed
round the echoing Source