I stand as Earth's daughter, head bowed with salty tears falling into the current upon the fearsome Sea I love. My toes sift sand like time, like once in glass made of sand. In one hand I hold the waste of wood with stinkin' ink smearing tales before my blurry eyes. In my heart, I hold a globe of once blue and green becoming brown. Fires burn. Faces turn angry, sad, frightened. My poems are dark these days. My songs cry for truth and peace.

Is it any wonder generations faced with destruction hide in weed and kegs, bits and bytes? Is it any wonder our mythology worships sports and movie folks, and our children emulate cartoon characters on All Hallowed Eve, while the wise ones of ages past, our elders, have lost their minds to Alzheimer's sludge in so-called nursing homes? Is it any wonder that it is not news that a 50 year old man with cancer said, "I'm going to the cemetery to die," and does just that, then lies there for two days before being found, and a week later by phone, his children learn of his death? Yes, I'd met that man once, in my daughter's home. Let us forget. Let us not know anymore of this treacherous tale of woe.

A sassy squall disturbed the heat a while ago with gaudy dances by the lightening review, displacing the smog and venting the ozone. The heat lost fifteen degrees within minutes while the electricity winked at us. There was a spark of hope in my heart as thunder shook my home. Among other endless names, there is the Keeper of the Storm. That is ALL, folks, the One Who Is for all of us, no matter how the world turns, or whose toes twirl sand.