We hang on its rim, the precarious
edge of a world waiting to fall
into space
abandoned
alone.

What we knew is falling into darkness
and we float on ethereal seas.
Our own ground – mountain and lake,
plain, fertile land, stream
pitch of hill, soggy lowland –
is careening into a field of stars
spirally spun over a golden sun
receding in spark and flame,
as a galaxy opens wings around us.

It is a new world to be born
out of our flame-licked ashes.
What we could have done to stop it
has not yet been done
nor can I see that it will be done.
The hour has come.

Portland, Oregon – July 19, 2018