Keep listening to the birds, and the crickets,
watching for star reflections in buckets,
though the present is a box full of darkness
remember it’s still a gift and nothing less.
The sky never had a limit, and the ground
is hallowed everywhere, even torn and browned,
even when it's sullied with a pandemic
of deceit and a tsunami of plastic.
When it’s ruthlessly mauled by a cyclone;
the warming of seas, the holes in the ozone.
Lay your skin close to the asphalt and concrete
and under them feel the seasonal heartbeat.
Thirteen ways are good, but you don’t always need
thirteen, one is enough, the rest is just greed.