Not one of us still living has ever inhaled the sweetness of a honeysuckle or felt the strong, rough bark of an oak.
The ghosts of dirt grown things haunt our dreams, reminding us of what we’ve lost.
Legends tell of enormous swaths of trees and endless stretches of ripened food glimmering in gentle sunlight.
We all mourn deeply for the times we were born into.
Our wilted statures and shortened life spans taunt our waking hours.
Tales sing of those who lived to grow gray crowns and wear wisdom on their faces.
We all drift into the fantasies to remove ourselves from the stone bleak reality.
We try to imagine bees and butterflies, yet their tiny bodies and fragile wings escape us.
Tomorrow not one of us lives to write the last obituary.