WHAT IS LEFT
Take them away, the redwoods with
the tiny blue flowers at their feet. Take them
away before we trample them at last.
The rivers: release them from their vows.
Let them know in secret they don’t owe us
anything. They will find their own way.
And the forests, loyal to the end. They know
how to march, though it fills them with fear.
Perhaps this will be enough to get them moving.
The air, the wind, best when unseen. Let it
pass softly on its way, where the million
weights it carries can finally be dropped.
Leave us the stars, cold, remote, ancient of days.
They look down upon us silently, unafraid.
They know we cannot touch them.
Barry Casey has published in Adventist Society for the Arts, Brevity, Faculty Focus, Lighthouse Weekly, Mountain Views, Patheos, Spectrum Magazine, The Dewdrop, and The Purpled Nail. His collection of essays, Wandering, Not Lost: Essays on Faith, Doubt, and Mystery, was published by Wipf and Stock in November 2019. He writes from Burtonsville, Maryland.
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