Dear Mother Nature, Creator of the Universe, The Great Mystery or the Deity in
What you can’t speak, your silent eloquence inspired: small prose poems viewed through a moving window. The sunlit, pixie dust glitter creased by deer tracks
crossing a postcard snow, snow that melted into rain that pooled and flooded the landscape with mirrors, a reflection of the kind of love I saw discarded along the north Robert Moses Parkway, a partially opened bouquet. The red roses were ribbon tied, the petals limp from salted slush and spattered mud.
I tried. I failed to persuade for Niagara’s natural restoration. Can I, should I? How can I love you anyway?