Death of the Bumblebee

Photography by Emily Kennedy

This day brings the heartache in dreamers.

We used to be searching the start for meanings, sliding our hands against stars, scruying to find the future, looking for omens in the night.

Now we use the dry papers of science to understand how we will destroy the earth.

It makes me feel like I am at the bottom of gray ocean, hope lost.

What would Nikolai Korsakov say when the last bumblebee dies?

Where is the poetry in old growth forests slowly dying?

Where is the justice of democratic governments that choke the rights of people, where is the dignity when a boy asks to bring his food from the soup kitchen home and is told no?
Our lips are forced shut so hard the blood runs down our chin.

Should we press cardboard signs to our chests? Make mute shouts in a system that corrupts and brings down.

These are the broken hearts of dreamers, sleeping against the budding weeds of Wall Street.

This is our struggle – to know that the destruction of our earth is near but to be powerless in changing it.