Anthropocene - March 14 2023

 

Anthropocene

March 14 2023

She wrote of a silent spring,

and we tried to learn

mend our ways

practice humility.

But now, outside

in the warm spring air

that smells of freshly thawing soil

with an acrid edge of woodsmoke,

I notice how quiet it seems.

Even the blackflies

that once came in swarms

that obscured the sun

and drove large animals mad

are more nuisance than unbearable.

In an interconnected world

that is complex and tightly coupled

the rot starts at the bottom;

slow and invisible

     . . . then all-of-a-sudden.

The bees we take for granted

ants we don't notice.

The living soil,

nuisance bugs,

hundred thousand beetles

as yet undiscovered.

And the caterpillars,

who seem to be made

of bristle and goo,

and look so plain

to the unaided eye;

yet, when magnified

would take your breath away.

Still, it's hard to notice

a slow apocalypse;

our lives are brief

and time moves slowly for us.

So I'm enjoying this pleasant spring;

how improbable

that in bug season

I’m able to stand outside

in cutoffs and short sleeves

and watch the world green.

As it's always done

and will.

That is

until it doesn't.

Until the heat becomes too much,

the rains don't come,

plastic buries us.

Until the pollinators fail

oceans suffocate,

covered

in oil slicks

decomposing fish

and toxic blooms.

They talk of the great generation

who won the war

as well as the peace.

So will we be known

as the last generation?

If the first to be aware

then the last to remember

first-hand

how things once were?

She bequeathed to us a world

that was still beautiful,

when a better future was clear

and redemption possible.

But we failed to learn.

So while we may be enjoying

the unseasonable weather,

it's our descendants who will bear

the burden of loss.

Inspired by Elizabeth's piece in this week's New Yorker.

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2023/03/20/the-little-known-world-of-caterpillars