Seating

I never know where a new client will sit.  Sometimes they ask, most often not.  These are often not small decisions.  Of course, sometimes they are.  I am never sure which ones count.  My rule of thumb is that clients need to sit somewhere. 

I never know where people will sit.

All the possible seats in my office

Have been occupied by clients

At one time

Or another.

Last time around I had a client

Who liked to sit

On the floor.

The question for me

Was

Do I sit on the floor

With him?

I didn*t.

People often choose their seats

In not so random ways.

Me?

I wait to see

Whether the seat is chosen

By whim

Or purpose.

Even then

I never know for sure.

Inside/Outside

It is often difficult, on the inside of any organization, to remember there is an outside as well.  Sometimes a change on the outside reflects a change on the inside.  Sometimes change goes from inside... out.  Still, on the inside, no matter the lighting, it is entirely possible to forget the outside... exists.

I sit inside under fluorescent light.

It is possible to forget

There is an outside

To this particular

Inside.

It is possible to forget

There is an upside

To this particular

Downside.

I hear the radio.

The cars pour by

On Roosevelt Road.

Glints in the cracks

Of the vertical blinds

 Remind me there is an outside

To this inside,

This place only certain people

Know

Exists.

Today the outside sign was changed

From

Financial Assistance Needed

To

Thank you for your contribution DMG

Today the outside changed

A little.

Today, here in the neon,

There are signs

The inside might perhaps

Be changing

As well.

Seismic shift

When I can wait long enough, I see the cracks where the grass grows.  Maybe the ground shifted awhile ago, and I simply didn*t notice.  Really I know the ground is always shifting, the grass is always growing, the earthworms always renewing the earth.  Sometimes I notice... and name what seems a seismic shift.  Really everything is always shifting.

Some days,

Not often,

But often enough,

There is a seismic shift

In the rock layers

Under my feet.

Some days,

Like today,

I notice new cracks

In the pavement.

They are green

With grass:

It has found the dirt

Underneath.

I think

I have not thought this way

Before.

There has been

A seismic shift.

The grass seems a sign

Of earthworms

Reworking the dirt

Under the grass

With their castings.

My eyes go down from there.

There are layers under layers

Upon layers.

But first the shift,

Then the crack

Before the grass

Can grow.

Then all the rest.

New territory: dream at fifty

Sometimes dreams are worth revisiting, maybe especially a few years on.  Now I am fifty-seven.  I remember nothing from the list I made in the dream ... only that I could fill it halfway, so I somehow wasn*t done.  I have the rest of that newsprint to fill before I*m done.  I take comfort in my package of markers, with all the colors of the rainbow.  I regularly tell people that there is a richness to being in one*s fifties, a richness I could not have predicted, a richness worth many orange Dreamsicle cakes.  It is new territory indeed.

When I turned fifty,

The hundred year old woman

In my parish was soon to die.

Another woman in the parish

Made me an orange Dreamsicle cake

In honor of my passing

Into new territory.

I shared a piece

With the hundred year old woman

In honor of her passing

Into new territory.

That week I dreamed I entered

A huge courthouse,

Gray and stone and somewhat dim.

Many of us waited there.

While we waited we were each given

A Large piece of newsprint,

Our own box of colored markers.

We were told to list our accomplishments

Before we left by the door

On the other side of the building.

I began but only filled the page

Halfway.

I left the newsprint

Where it was.

I kept the markers,

and exited the building

The way I came.

I went back out

Into the sunlight.

Global warming

Again... I was going to write a reflection about something else, about how looking at statistics for my blog show me I have readers in Russia and Romania even though I have no idea who they are or why they might link to such a blog.  Global warming came out instead.  So there it is.  I have no idea what the Russians will think.

It seems

Saying global warming

Doesn*t exist

Is similar to denying

God.

If I can*t see it

Because I*ve covered my eyes

Or pulled the shades

Or God forbid

I have decided nothing

Will convince me

Of anything,

Even ice caps melting

Won*t do it,

Even polar bears on ice floes.

I do believe in God

Way more even

than global warming.

Everything conspires

To show me

God is at work,

Even despite

Global warming.

Punchline

I am not the family joke-teller.  Often I only remember the punchline.  That*s no way to tell a story.  It*s important to remember the lead-in...

Why do I write?

I know it is not

To be preserved in a book

For Posterity,

Whoever

Posterity is.

The blog makes it easier

For me to return

To past days.

I often forget

What I saw

Yesterday,

What I heard

Yesterday.

I never was a good joke teller.

I always seem to tell

The punchline

First.

Why do I write?

I write to remember

What I saw

Yesterday,

What I heard

Yesterday,

What I felt

Yesterday.

It seems important to return

To past days.

Otherwise I mostly remember

The punchline.

I know

That*s no way

To tell a story.

What shall we call it?

I am in new territory... again.  The rules and constrictions don*t exactly fit.  I have an office... yes.  I meet with people... yes.  I charge by the hour... yes.   How to name it?  How to advertise?  Is it therapy?  Consulting?  Spiritual direction?  Pastoral counseling? What shall we call it?  And...does it really matter?

What shall we call it,

This thing that we do?

If it is marked on my calendar,

An hour is allotted.

A particular fee charged,

What shall we call it

This thing that we do

Together?

If I listen to your edges

And trajectories;

If I name what I hear,

The bits and pieces

The themes

So they come alive

In the center of the room?

What shall we call it

When we dance

With what we find,

Sing along,

Befriend.

Maybe even

Cast it into outer darkness.

What shall we call it

This thing that we do

Together?

Sometimes I wonder

Ah, morning dreams.  I decided last night to work from home today.  No office appointments, so I slept in.  Today promises very hot and sunny, so I will stay in the cool, write, clean baseboards, and contemplate living on the seventh floor, endless food courts and dolphins. 

I dreamed we came back from vacation;

Our house was now in a neighborhood transformed

Row upon row

Of identical bright blue gridded buildings.

We were told

We now lived on the seventh floor

Of one of the buildings.

To get there

We took the front bank of elevators.

When we arrived at our condominium

We were introduced to our neighbor*s friend

From college.

She was project manager for our transformed neighborhood..

Her company had just declared bankruptcy,

So she had decided to teach high school.

The seventh floor

From the back bank of elevators

Was an endless food court

And a dolphin habitat.

We looked for the connection

Between the two parts of the seventh floor.

We never found it.

Mondays are a learning curve

Mondays are my volunteer days at the Clinic.  I am there from 9 to 5:30.  At the Clinic I learn a whole new way of keeping charts and treatment plans.  I learn new clients.  Here there are different rules, different settings for different rules.  Here I have to fill out progress notes which say that we worked on Goal number one, objective number one.  Mondays are a learning curve.  In comparison, the rest of the week is a water slide.

Mondays are a learning curve.

I don*t know who will come,

Who will cancel

Because of a possibly phantom

Earache.

I learn treatment plans,

Updates to treatment plans,

Progress notes with a newly-acquired

Provider number.

I am now a number;

My work can be entered

Into the system.

Mondays are still

A learning curve.

Every Monday

I find myself in the neon-lit office

Of the old motel

Next to the car wash.

By the end of most sessions

I come up with

Directly applicable

Homework.

Yet Mondays are still

A learning curve.

The rest of the week

Is a waterslide

From there.

One lone fly

The fan vent finally has a new cover.  It promises to keep out birds and insects.  The sparrow party over the last two weeks included three live baby sparrows in the house, one (it seems) for each of us to find, the cat helping.  I found a dead sparrow under the boot bench after the fly population seemed to increase for no apparent reason.  We are now down to one fly.  

One lone fly is left

In the house.

The rest of us who live here

Have figured

Different ways

To rid the house of flies.

I favor the swat.

My husband

Thinks catch and release

The best method.

My daughter prefers

Someone else take care of it.

One lone fly.

The cat prefers to watch and leap.

One lone fly is left

To entertain the cat

While the rest of us are gone

For the day.

Tut tut

I grew up with Winnie the Pooh, long before the Walt Disney version.  Pooh was pen and ink, with a gravelly voice; Piglet pen and ink as well, his voice high and squeaky.  My mother had a different voice for each one, though I remember she did not do Tigger the way I thought Tigger should be done.  Still, on a day such as this one, I hear echoes of the Hundred Aker Wood: : Tut tut, it looks like rain.  I do not remember who said it: Pooh or Eeyore or Rabbit, perhaps Piglet.   I do hope the rain comes

Tut tut. it looks like rain.

Words from Winnie (the Pooh)

Offer the promise

Of more moisture

For this thirsty land.

Gray clouds,

Occasional water drips

On the windshield,

Green crabgrass

Through last year*s mulch,

The air itself

Feels wetter than yesterday.

It looks and feels

Like rain,

Possible rain.

Tut tut, indeed.

Wealth of broken pieces

I set out to write something about putting together a mosaic, and found that I am in the place of contemplating which pieces belong.  I*ve been here before, many times.  It seems this is a time of waiting to know what fits, which are the pieces that belong.  Of course I thought I knew this already.  No.  Darn it all.

Early on

When the Whole

I thought I*d begun

Broke into smaller pieces

I found it all

Shattered into possibility.

The Whole somehow

Had to include

Stray bits from the wayside

Polished pebbles out of the riverbed

Shards of broken glass from the street

Chunks of rock.

I knew I would never get back

To the original picture.

Indeed

I never knew original

Anyway.

Here I am

Later on

The Whole broken

Into smaller pieces again.

There is a wealth

Of broken pieces:

Polished pebbles smooth to the touch;

Shards of colored glass

I hold up to the light;

Chunks of rock I can sit on

While I wait,

While I figure where and if

They fit.

Here I am again:

More pieces,

A veritable wealth

Of broken pieces.

Weeds

The weeds are ecstatic

For the recent rain.

They sing in the front yard.

They green

The brown spaces.

They are the first

To return,

Hardy souls 

They have lived underground

As seeds

In the drought.

They green

The brown spaces.

Other than Sunday

I received a job posting a couple days ago for a counseling position on and around a military base.  Flexible hours (it said).  It sounded appealing then and it still does today.  It took me a day or two to realize this is a lot of what clergy folk do.  We use the walk-around/coaching approach.  It was even in quotation marks in the ad.  

Other than Sunday, what do you do?  I wonder how I would count hours on a military base.

Counseling services need to be delivered face-to-face using a "walk-around/coaching" approach…

                                                                              Excerpt from a job posting received by email two days ago

I have done this for years.

I still do.

When people ask

What a priest does

They usually have a postscript.

It reads

Other than Sunday.

They know where you are

On Sunday,

Easy job if you can get it:

Lead a service

Preach a sermon

Hang out with the family

The rest of the week

Unless of course

someone dies

Or needs

to get married.

Other than Sunday

What could you possibly be doing

With all that time?

Now I am a real-life advertisement

For the walk-around/coaching approach

I do the exact same thing

On Sundays

Even on Sunday.

When people ask

This is what I do.

Well

I wish I knew what exactly brings about a change of perspective.  Somehow God seems the logical answer.  This morning I woke up well.

This morning I woke up well:

Well in spirit

Well in vision

Well in possibilities

On the horizon.

I still have no idea

What will happen tomorrow

Except I woke up well

This morning.

I could see

There is more to all of this

Than meets the eye.

Knitting redux

I chanced upon the women*s sewing/knitting group this morning at church.  Not being on my own driving schedule, I arrived way before any appointments.  So... I had the chance to talk and realize once again how such groups can offer the space where so much more than handcrafts dwell.  It brought me back to the knitting women at my former parish, and the way they knit their way through life and death and everything in between.  It happens here as well.  Who knew?

I had no idea

There was so much more to learn.

There is so much more,

Therefore

There will be

So much more.

It simply

Stands to reason.

It even stands

Beyond anything

That passes

For reason.

I attend the women*s sewing group.

There is so much more

Than sewing

Or knitting

That happens here.

I remember the knitting women

From before.

They knit their way

Through life and death,

And everything

In between.

I had no idea

Or perhaps

I simply forgot

There is so much more to learn

Here

As well.

Halfway

It is a blessing to have an office halfway under and halfway above the ground.   Best of both worlds, as well as a connection with both.  On a hot day like this one, it is a particular blessing.  I can sit here and give particular thanks for earth and sun and sky, and still know I know only a small piece of why this is a blessing.

Here in the office

I am halfway above ground.

The window lets in light

From the sun and sky,

Here in the office

I am halfway below ground.

On a day such as this

Hot and bright as anything,

I can almost dig my toes

In the earth,

Feel the cool,

It rises out of the dirt.

Here in the office

I am connected to both,

Here there seems reason

For both.

Here in the office I know

Reason

is only

The small of it.

Sparrow number three

It*s been a full day.  Now it is fuller.  I am wondering how many more baby sparrows are figuring out how to come up or down the vents.  The last one was covered in lint... which now makes me think perhaps the dryer vent...

I am greeted at the front door

With sparrow number three

In the daughter*s hand.

Yes

He is cute and small

Yes

I know people keep finches

As pets.

No

We can*t

No

I*m so sorry

He is cute and small.

I know

Some people do keep sparrows

In bird cages

As pets.

We still do not know

How numbers one and two

Came in.

Here is number three.

I imagine our walls

Filled with sparrows

Cheeping chirping sparrows.

They live in our walls

Somewhere

Somehow.

It seems the cat has decided

To adopt them all.

Sparrow number two

I know God cares for sparrows.  It*s in the Bible, after all.   Maybe the newly fledged sparrows are making their appearance, one at a time, every three days, for a reason.  God cares for the sparrows.  I know this.  I would prefer to contemplate such things outside of the house.

Sparrow number two

Arrived this morning

Next to the sliding glass doors

Inside.

Like sparrow number one,

We have no idea

How he got in,

How she got in.

The cat has never known such excitement.

Over the weekend

We eliminated the bathroom fan

As a source

Of entry.

We each have a theory

But no solution.

We each

Are gone

For the day.

The cat and turtle

Will hold down

The fort.

I have no idea what we will find

When we return.

Cowbird

How to make God laugh?  Make plans.  This seems one more illustration of this.  Think, Catharine:  why would there be one more largish bird left in the nest, without feathers?  One more cowbird for the world.   Not the plan.  Not the plan at all.

The plan

Was to empty the fan duct,

Make it impervious

To re-nesting sparrows.

God laughs at our plans,

Maybe not so much

To make us feel foolish

But maybe

To show us

There is always more

To the story.

My job was to clean out

Old nesting material.

At the end of the wadded grass and weeds

A baby bird fell out,

Naked and the size

Of a mostly grown sparrow.

We put him back,

Moved the task to fall.

Today we realized

It was probably

A cowbird.

We shoved a cowbird back

Into the sparrow*s nest.

Now there will be

One more cowbird

In the world.

Not exactly

The plan.

Still

It matters

To him or her

And cowbirds everywhere.

Sometimes all it takes is a story

Stories and metaphors have a way about them.  They help us name things in a different way: dress them up, dress them down... sometimes laugh at the silliness of ourselves, in the guise of such as the farmer buried in corn. This is a Garrison Keillor story (Minnesota humor).   Despite my having been reared in the big city of Minneapolis, it names truth about my story as well.   I am still regularly buried in corn, despite having lived away from Minnesota for years.

Sometimes all it takes

Is a story

Like this one:

There once was a farmer

In Minnesota,

Trapped by corn

In his silo

While his children waited

For the school bus.

The farmer did not call out

Until his children were dropped off

In the afternoon.

School was important

After all.

I know that farmer.

I was that farmer

Often

I am that farmer

Buried in corn.

Sometimes all it takes

Is a story.

I could wrap myself around that story,

Claim it for my own;

Dress it up,

Dress it down,

Hold it out

For viewing,

My own and others*.

There is often great power

In a story.

Sometimes all it takes

Is a story.

The Minnesota in me

Buried in corn

Sometimes waits and waits

No trouble at all

Nope

No trouble at all.

I am not my Father*s daughter for nothing

I have been here before, in this struggle to deal with changing rules and regulations and human systems.  I realize how much my own father taught me to approach things creatively, while honoring the rules and regulations and systems, to stand back and see where the stepping stones are.  I am not big on praying to or imagining God as Father, but here it seems I am my Father*s daughter as well.  This is a huge comfort, all by itself.

I am not the daughter

Of an attorney

For nothing.

I learned at my father*s knee

To question

The Understood.

I learned

To approach things

Creatively,

Wade in the shallows

On the edge of the lake

Before

Jumping in;

Then

Climb out, get dry,

Consider the water

Again,

See

Where the rocks bump up

Against the surface,

Provide

Stepping stones

To the other side.

I am not my father*s daughter

For nothing.

I know this very familiar place,

This place where

What I thought was true

Isn*t,

What I counted on

Must be refigured again

And again.

I am not my Father*s daughter

For nothing.

I should have known

Things have a way of repeating themselves.  Still... I was not expecting the foray into professional counseling would bear such a startling resemblance to the ordination process.  It seems I will have to follow a different path here as well.

I should have known:

This foray into licensing

With rules that change regularly

Regarding

What counts,

How to count,

And who does

The counting;

This foray

Is strangely reminiscent

Of the way things were counted

In my twenties.

Thirty years later

I recognize the boundaries

Of this potter*s field.

Here

There are even fewer things

That count.

Yes, I should have known.

Clearly

I should have known.

Fan duct

I don*t think the duct is big enough for robins, though they certainly sound like robins.  Perhaps they are sparrows?  Perhaps all babies have insistent chirps that must be heard.

The fan duct in the living room ceiling

Has produced

A new brood

Of tuneless baby birds.

They echo.

This haven of mine

Is crowded.

For now

The birds live

Over my writing chair.

I think

They are learning to walk

In the metal duct,

Maybe pace,

While they out-of-tune clamor

For food.

I wait

For the fledging.

When the world shrinks

I am continually surprised at who is paying attention to my life, and how.  People enter from unlikely places, say unlikely things.  Heck... sometimes they are unlikely people.  Really unlikely people.  Why should I be surprised?  I got a book recommendation from a woman writing a biography of my great grandfather, a very apt book recommendation.  I have met her once.  I thought of you she said.  It seemed appropriate.  It is  appropriate.  Stage left, stage right... sometimes someone pops up out of the audience, and you were not aware they were attending the play.

Sometimes when the world shrinks,

It expands beyond belief.

In the space left behind

Other possibilities emerge:

Slide in

From stage left;

Skip  in

From stage right.

They even pop up from part of the audience

You didn*t know

Was in attendance.

Fan mail from some flounder?

Even as my vision comes and goes

Even as I make jokes

About seizures

Every nine months

When the state thinks six months

Is a guarantee;

Even as the world shrinks,

It expands beyond belief.

In the space left in front,

Possibilities emerge.

Different things

I am sitting at my volunteer counseling place.  Client number 1 cancelled.  I wait for client number 2.  I was driven here by my beloved.  I will walk the streets of Wheaton and Glen Ellyn when I am done here, probably my clients will be among those with whom I walk.  Still learning as I go.

Once again

I pay attention

To different things.

I walk,

See the people who walk

With me.

I discover

Renewed vision,

Realize the blur

Of fluorescent lights.

I notice the comfort

Of indirect daylight.

I take things

In stages,

Read accounts of those

Whose challenges

Are so much more

Than mine,

Those who walk

All the time,

Those who see

The corners of things,

Have to extrapolate

The rest.

Once again I see

Different things.

They remind me of things

I did not learn as fully

Before.

-ing

I spent a year or two excising -ing from my daily reflections.  The workshop folk had a point.  There were many times I used it unthinkingly.  As with any rule, though, applying it to every situation is unwarranted.  I am also less certain of the importance of being definitive: past, present or future.

When I attended the poetry workshop

I learned

-ing is to be avoided

At almost every cost.

It is important to be definitive,

Certain:

Past certain

Present certain

Future certain.

-ing weakens the poem.

-Ing makes the verb

Into a process.

The process dampens

Into a noun.

The dance becomes

Dancing,

The song

Mere singing.

Death ekes into the gray

Of dying,

Life becomes living.

-ing forces the verb

To stay on

Like the guest after three days

Over-staying his welcome,

Her welcome.

The poem is meant

To be shorter

Than prose.

Soon there comes the time

For leaving.

Like now

Mortality

I find myself more captured by mortality, including those people who are dealing with it, up close and personal.  My book list has expanded to include brushes with cancer, ALS, cystic fibrosis.  My friends who know more intimately their life with inherent challenge, mortality, the reality of life and death... I am awed in the company of these who have a better sense of what awaits all of us at last, what can inform us even now.

Seizures may return

Or not.

I figure they are knowable,

Even as I am not present

For them.

It seems apparent

My mortality

Is not mine

At all,

But perhaps

 Indeed

Someone else*s

Somewhere else*s.

Mortality has moved

To a different realm.

Seizures may return

Or not.

The words to describe them,

I cannot know

Except perhaps in words of those

Who watch.

Still

They are not my words.

I am told the last one

Was different:

More expected

Certainly quieter

No drool

At all.

36.97916 per cent

Yes, I am still counting.  Perhaps we are always counting our way to something:  time to the achievement of a particular goal, time to retirement, time to when our child goes to kindergarten (or leaves for college).  We can look at it as an only, or even as not enough.  Me?  I am counting hours to the time I can take the licensure test for the LCPC.  Meanwhile I get hours that count toward a more complete life, somehow.  More hours to ride with other drivers, hours to walk the streets of Roselle and Glen Ellyn, hours to pay attention to who else is walking with me.  I get hours that don*t count in the time to licensure, but hours that train me nonetheless.  No, I am not yet convinced of this.  But I know I will be.

Yesterday I added up the hours

After two years.

I have counted

Everything possible:

Hours in my office;

Hours as chaplain

To the Daughters;

Hours with recovering alcoholics

In the halfway house;

Hours in the free clinic.

I have counseled life

And death

And everything

In between.

In the midst of it all

I have added the specialty

Of new dependence

And interdependence.

I know whereof I speak.

I know whereof

I counsel.

Yesterday

I added up the hours.

I have arrived at exactly

36.97916 per cent

Of what I need

To take

The next step.

My beloved tells me

I am over one-third there.

I consider four more years

At this rate.

I continue

To consider it.

Oasis

The weather forecasters say it will be cooler next week.  I*ll believe it when I feel it.  Hopeful friends think that with all the power saved in the outage this week, we*ll be in for no brown-outs.  This is a desert year.  And... life still reaches for life, wherever oasis may be found.

Other summers

We have opened

The windows

For breeze

And cool night air.

Not this year.

This is the desert year.

Heat in the day,

Heat at night.

This year the backyard raccoon

Bites and scratches holes

In the backdoor screen.

He hopes to get in

To the cool,

Drives the cat

Absolutely

Mad.

This is the desert year.

The tree by the upstairs bedroom window

Wears a hole in the screen.

It too hopes

To grow inside

Into the cool.

This is the desert year.

Everything seeks

Oasis.

Power outage

Our post in the western suburbs lost power twice in the last five days (once on Sunday for five hours and then again on Tuesday for seven hours).  It was not at all what our neighbors two suburbs south had to endure (or still are enduring).  We were fortunate.  We are fortunate.  I am grateful for the reminder.

Power slowly returns

To the western suburbs.

Yesterday we ran into friends

At the supermarket,

They were restocking their freezer.

The thrum of washers and dryers,

The hum of air conditioning,

Replaces the neighborhood generators.

Already the cardinal,

The occasional blue jay

Fade

Into background noise.

The neighbors fade

Indoors.

It is still overly dry

And hot.

Today will be 105 degrees.

Power undergoes

Restitution

Redefinition

Reordering.

We will remember part of this.

We always do.

We will forget as well.

We always do.

Borderless love

I am a priest and poet and now a therapist.  I am married to a political scientist.  We bring different things to the table, to our conversations.   On this Independence Day we are both grateful for this country in which we live, and not so grateful for the things which separate us from loving those beyond our borders.  This quotation came from inwardoutward.org today.

The love of one's country is a splendid thing. But why should love stop at the border?

                                                                                                Pablo Casals

Consider the borders,

The edges we create

Between us and them,

Them and us.

Then

Imagine the borders

Not existing at all:

Artificial countries

In pink and green and blue,

The United States

In the middle of the map

Somehow bigger

Than the rest.

Consider the borders

Then

Consider them

Gone.

Remember the chalk erasers from first grade?

Remember when we wrote things

We could erase?

Consider the borders

The edges

Erased,

Chalk dust clapped into the air

Behind the school building,

The chalkboard washed clean

To begin again

Tomorrow.

Consider the borders,

The edges we create

Then

Consider them gone

Erased.

Consider maps with no borders

No country

In the center.

Consider love

In the middle.

Air conditioning

I do not do well in heat.  I never have.  My thinking shuts down, my vision blurs.  Are there people like me in the tropics?  What do they do?  Do they do their thinking at night?

I am more than grateful

For air conditioning,

Even for fans that blow

Over iceblocks,

Enough coolness

To think straight,

To recapture that bead

On sanity.

I wonder about people

Who live in the desert,

The perpetual hot zones.

Dry heat is still heat.

Do they do their thinking

At midnight

In moonlight

In starlight

Do they adapt?

Do they walk the sand,

Pray for watering holes?

Do they think of moving

To Antarctica or wonder

If all the ice in the world

Will disappear?

Do they even remember

The existence

Of ice?