Protest

In response to a nightmarish vision,
I must protest
the earth
in its westward leaning.
The east winds blow
and trees 
lean far to the right.

Even geese 
that are given to wander
rest here at night,
their droppings a slick 
of green slander.

But who is it speaks for the fish
in their sequined robes
or the furry life 
hidden in holes?
If might makes right,
what is left 
that we might call human?

We exploit the light,
in summer make long days longer,
in winter short,
altogether making sport 
of the seasons.

Is there no rite
to correct the earth in its leaning,
to give back to night
a depth
of mystery and meaning?

What becomes of freedom 
and voters’ political roles
when money and hate are defined 
as our country’s goals?