High Time – Mulled Psalm 7

It’s noon. No one can outrun the sun.

Ozone leisure zone is gone.

High noon flings regrets:

Sorry we jumped the gun;

better to have been a nun?

In this long June noon none can escape

January follies. New escapades,

mad dashes for shade, landscape make-dos–

all futile efforts to reimagine

heartache-free October families.

“You blew it!” burning rays blare:

took for granted clean air, soil, water, love.

Now too late to stave off trauma,

Earth teeters in triage on choke-point brink.

God Alive, our Hideout: Strong Love, rise,

preside, vindicate and empower us.


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