You fill my great waters with your cast-off plastic, my streams and rivers with toxic chemicals.
You complain that the water is no longer fit to drink.
You wonder why the fish are scarce and the grasses withered and brown.
I shed my heart’s blood for the animals left homeless and undernourished, the starving polar bears, the treeless birds, the hooved and pawed beasts cut off from their homes and food sources by barbed wire, burning highways, electric fences, and projectile weapons.
I express my rage.
I send hurricanes, blizzards and the occasional volcano eruption.
I whisper my truths into the inner ears of those who would protect me.
They understand: to protect me, is to protect yourselves.
You forget, you see.
You oh-so-conveniently forget that I was here before you, and I will remain long after.
You might not recognize my evolving form.
You might resent the changes I must make to ensure my own survival.
You might shiver in fear at what I’m likely to become.
And yet, you do nothing to stop me.
I am the flood and the fire.
I am the coppery blood of all things, living and dead.
I am the earth.
And I can be maternal.
But I can also be a mother.