It was ruined when you left.
You had a gift
for transplanting small whispers of nature
which burst into song beneath the thumb
of your green magic.
Fuschia, wild rose and climbing ivy
the last torn back
when it threatened to
uproot the house.
Now once again it grows
climbing and covering the gable end:
can a seed, once planted
ever be destroyed?
Like seeds of the Anthropocene:
revolution upon revolution.
We’re working to uproot ourselves
when all is said and done
and I can’t help but wonder
even in the transplant of the first human idea
was nature seeding our destruction?
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Written for earthweal
For this week’s challenge, Brendan asks us to:
describe the Anthropocene sublime as you find it in your locale. How is that experience similar to the Romantic moment of Wordsworth or Thoreau or Muir, and how has it changed? Can enchantment and spiritual renewal be found in the everyday, even in ruined places?
Perhaps nowhere is the battle between Man and Nature more apparent than in my father’s garden. I can’t help but think that Woman and Nature made a better pairing, at least here, when my mother used to tend it. But we’re writing of Anthropocene destruction, and of course, ‘Anthropos’ means ‘Man’ (which is supposed to encompass all of us, even the 50% who aren’t). I wonder how a ‘Gynaecene’ would look, and if it would be any different in the end?