Ode to Earth

If clouds are her curls waving in the wind,
whitecaps the frothy lace of her blue-grey skirts
slightly worn and often dingy
the sandy beach her legs, mostly smooth
the pebbles gooseflesh and the cliffs her feet,
then what is the asphalt and concrete
but cracked and creeping fissures of an age
of desperation and malicious destiny?
And what am I, and all my kind
in the scheme of geology?
What of the liquid hydrocarbon,
the controlled hemorrhaging of which
keeps her weak and pliable?
Our rash of boxy blemishes a speading pox
following the razor burn of denuded forests?
When the time of reckoning comes
will she lower her skirts,
let the lace creep up the shores,
swirl past the cliffs of her toes
and seal our fates in a watery tomb?
Or will she breathe in her blood turned to gas
raise her skirts and withdraw
until our foolishness causes the end
of the Primate Period?