Leisha Douglas

 

THE DOOMSDAY CLOCK

Two minutes until midnight,
I would rather look at dogwoods open
their small white hands as they do every May
than think about the planet, its irreparable wounds,
the gauze of peace.

However, I am one of them,
the opportunistic parasites
who intend to harness everything
so to never die out.

Could apocalyptic anticipation be like sand in the oyster’s shell,
an irritant necessary for loveliness?

The usual songbirds usher in morning.
In its predictable uniform,
stability stands.