Her forests rage red,
poisoned eyes seep, shard tears streak
sour yellow sky.
Parched tributaries
dream spring melt rushing cool, clear.
Hope is not enough.
Pierced, her blood runs black,
smothers sandpipers, seagulls.
She must bear witness.
Shatter her bones,
the fiercest mother’s brought down.
We all fall with her.
We hold her future.
Raise a mighty roaring wind!
Scatter truth like seeds!
Beyond the curve,
the sun sets with no promises
more than ours to her.
Will you stand with her?
—
Joyce Ritchie grew up in Midwest farmland and now lives in the coastal Mid-Atlantic; place infuses her poems. A lifelong reader, classical musician and career fundraiser, words and music are a through-line of her life. These days, she’s happiest wandering outdoors, a plein air poet, rediscovering her love of words and music—wordmusic. Publications include Blue Heron Review, Canary, Passager, Persimmon Tree, Sunlight Press (Pushcart nomination), and three chapbooks in collaboration with plein air painters.
