The leaves move quietly in the gentle wind,
remembering where the coolness came from: far away, across the sea.
Great churning depths, the boil of black water and the grave;
an empty voice in the sweating void.
Summer days of pelting rain, melting plastic;
the slow release of poison from what we made with our hands.
The leaves are stirred by soft breezes.
In the beginning, this was all.
Tomorrow, there will be hail.
Who knows what comes in the afternoon.
© 2019 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.