UNCERTAIN YEARS

The gathering clouds bring nothing but rain,
midnight rain and the promise of dampness.
When I wake I find the hills still wrapped,
reluctant to shed their misty blankets.

Or is it the snowy fog that hangs around,
not wanting to leave the jungle peaks,
lingering, kissing the canopy, as the fat sun sneaks,
and casts a disapproving eye
over his lush, voluptuous daughters.

The whole world is waiting for an answer-
at least that’s what I like to think
“What’s the catch?” the oily trawler captain barks,
“Where’s my meat?” the stray dog snarls,
and where does it all lead
this frantic daily struggle?

The turbulent sea provides no explanation.
Persistently teased by a wanton moon,
he swells and seethes,
rises, recedes,
and rumbles in frustration.
Cuckolded each night by Orion,
he hurls his jealous diatribe crashing,
gnashing teeth and pounding fists
against a weary, hardened coastline.

The Ceiba tree endures on buttressed roots,
wizened limbs aching,
reaching skyward,
paying homage to lost gods.
Tall he stands, surveying remaining woodlands.
Centenarian sentinel of these uncertain years,
proud arms outspread,
draped in bromeliads that drink his last tears.

And everywhere are vultures
everywhere is shadow and nowhere do we learn
what is now and what is not,
and what will remain.
But the scavengers wait,
not caring when the light dims
from the irises of asking eyes.
The carrion eaters do not wonder,
they accept the truth that we deny
and they feast on our last questions
as we give up our search and die.