Anthropocene Villanelle
The weather’s beautiful and I’m still here.
Drought stunts my garden. I’d hoped for the best
because the forecast wasn’t exactly clear.
I plant seeds, they sprout, then disappear.
The satsuma tree curls its leaves, distressed.
Still, the weather’s beautiful. And I’m here,
along with dandelions that persevere
like aphids, squirrels and other pests.
Even if the forecast isn’t very clear
for my kind, whatever’s left won’t need to fear,
with freeways to roam, our houses for nests.
Whither weather, whether wither … still, I’m here,
laying in flats of pole beans like last year,
picking wrinkled pods as if I’ve failed some test.
I blame the forecasts — have they ever been clear?
Indoors, I check my news feed, find my fears
gone viral. No putting them to rest.
The weather’s fine, for now. I’m still here.
What’s beautiful? Nature mort? Finally, it’s clear.