(at the Final Climate Summit)
I look
out a window smudged by cataracts
at the browning of green east Texas pines.
At one time so robust they lean in clusters now
like overly elderly brothers at a family reunion
diminished and thinner standing with stiff arms
thrown around each other’s shoulders
for that last snapshot tribute to remaining alive.
I touch
an abandoned spiderweb in the corner of the sill
where the ancient carcass of a bee lies on its side.
We’ll be fine
though
as Mom and Dad would always say.
At least the trees are not charred black.
And at least my parents did not live to see
so many tan needles stuck on dry-sap bark