Poetry About Doom

Every headline leans toward the final hour. The sky itself appears to hold its breath. We name the ending until it feels ordained. Still, someone plants beans beside the shelter. Doom loses certainty when hands begin to work. Tomorrow is not promised to disaster alone.

Look again from the quieter edge. The sky itself appears to hold its breath. A smaller detail changes the whole scene. Still, someone plants beans beside the shelter. Attention loosens the first easy answer. Tomorrow is not promised to disaster alone.

Every headline leans toward the final hour. Hours pass, but the image does not leave. We name the ending until it feels ordained. It returns us to foreboding, catastrophe, fatalism, fear, prophecy, and the possibility of acting before an ending. Doom loses certainty when hands begin to work. The day continues with a more attentive heart.