Shrink-wrapped chicken flesh sits on shelves,
but who remembers how to raise hens for food?
Faucets dispense fresh cold and hot water,
but who knows how to haul buckets full?
And from where? We close our eyes and reach out,
hoping food and water will tell us how
and where. Will they-whom-we-abused help us?
Survival skills are sparse away from farms.
Maybe our parents’ parents’ stories hold clues
for survival, if enough of them gather. (Now that
we know Flint's story of lasting pollution, now
that science and government have failed us.)
It's time to praise water without waiting
for more reasons to weep. Time we learned
to save it without looking for whom to blame.
Time we showed up to save ourselves.
And as we walk toward the fields, let's greet
those who might still welcome us—trees and plants
and folks native here and those who—like us—
are still their guests. We have only this chance.
My blog poems are rough drafts.
Please respect my copyright.
© 2018 Susan L. Chast