Me, Myself and I

As a child I lovingly cradled
the robin's blue eggshells
I found underneath the sturdy
forest trees,
carefully I would place them
on a simple wooden shelf
that was hung just below
my molding window.
The lace curtains
always drawn back so that
I might not miss a single
natural scene.

As a teenager I smashed
every reminder of a new life
that I could find,
my resentment
for this world showered
on a bewildered mother earth.
My baby pink walls
that used to echo with innocent laughter
were filled with incongruous thoughts,
neatly penned with a fine tip marker,
the blackest one to be found.

As an adult I sought
the harshest penance to repay
those tender new shoots trampled
below my black lace-up army boots,
the young saplings that
I took my daddy's axe to
in rebellious fits of rage,
the amphibians I locked
in windowless cages,
and the robin's blue eggshells
that I crushed
with my bruised fists.

As an elderly citizen I warned
those whose eyes burned
with a wretched fire
that nature's helpless
could not be blamed
for our own inadequacies,
that no matter how hard we willed
the sun not to rise
it would always come,
barreling over the still horizon,
to interrupt
our seances of self loathing.
Mother nature would continue
to live and flourish
whether we uttered atomic threats
into its fungal ears or
burned its outstretched arms
with cigarettes, puffing
the smoke of raw emotion.

As a memory I imitate
my childrens' conscience
following them
like a forlorn puppy,
reminding of my own penitence.