Like a Siberian ache spreading across the pole
and down to my Virginia comfort zone,
the winter turns from west to north, bearing
due south by the zero degree, the forecast, more
of the same, oil demons raising a pricy howl.
The wolf at the door drives a big smelly truck,
hands you a bill for three thousand dollars to
get you thru the worst of it, same time next year.
Xmas x’ed out again, the sad little tree with its
dire needling says faux fir with all its tiny heart.
Inspired tree hugging may only save peace of mind,
men of good will are still opting for the oil profits
or the annual oracle of calc-speaking prophets.
Earth is an organism all depend on for warmth
not runaway greenhouse, farmhouse meltdown.
X marks the prop my fake tree stands on, lives by,
takes solace from a belief that energy from art or
poetry finds a way into the hearts of men in troubled
times even when few can see the trouble approach.
Give our joy and comfort room without opulence.
Nature will survive our demands by ending them.
©Jimmy Warner Design, 2016