To Edward Campagnola
there will be no snow in this poem
i grew up on the california coast
sunshine, smog and optimism
writers write what we know, they say
coin terms and make clichés,
turn clichés into new expressions…
tree leaves crackle in the wind
as my hand creates directly from my brain
inscribing visions from
inner thoughts and images
making metaphors evocative…
there will be no snow nor any ice on earth
soon—a boon solely to the new
explorers and conquistadors
seeking the northwest passage
to riches yet untold,
unsold, unexploited
environment is evaporating
into thin air thickened with fumes and
smoke and transparent greenhouse vapors
invisible yet indivisible from breath
never leaving any evidence on our tongues
or noses, skin or eyes to remind us
(the oblivious)
that the sixth extinction is upon us (all—
no exceptions made)
the unstoppable tipping point
pointing right at us
a giant finger in the sky
a middle finger
imminent and inexorable
unyielding, hard as nails
in our coffins
a cancer stick
stuck in our collective throat and lungs
do we need more metaphors?
the writing on the wall is writ
clear across the hazy sky
Barry Barnett lives in Santa Rosa.
