The blossoms cry for help from us,
the masters of this planet now,
we sometimes notice, then discuss,
determined to repent, we vow
to rectify our deeds, and thus
we raise our voices, take a bow.
For what, the earth will want to know,
it's we that made our future bleak.
The flowers feared this long ago,
that human tears are really weak
reminders, reaping what we sow
is what we do, our self-critique.
We may not see the flowers cry-
they wait until the rain's about-
this world is ravaged, gone awry,
but can't express its utter doubt.
Perhaps you never wondered why
their whorls have dew, and grass without?
Jack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana.