What can you do for the earth Mary Collins
and, after all, what can the earth do for you? Remember every time it’s let you down—
every spring that bloomed with rotten oranges, every winter that made you a rat in an icebox. Will this world ever be tender?
Wash the sheets on Friday, remember your favorite color? Cook vegan frittatas when you’re feeling low? There have been so many months,
so many old tote bags, cloth napkins,
reusable containers, organic tampons.
Fruitless petitions rotting in the compost bin.
You started buying all your spices in bulk and forgot to label them. You resent this,
so you keep sweeping dirt off the back porch, telling the earth where it ends and you begin.
Most of your comforts do not come from blue-capped mountain tops
or spinning green rivers. It is pleasant on a hot summer day
to step into an air-conditioned room; pleasant
to wipe a kitchen counter with a paper towel and throw it in the trash.
There are wolves in the forest, snakes in the ocean,
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