The trees have wilted.

The fruit has rotten.

Concrete and steel scrape 

at her warm embrace.

 

The watercolor dreidel spins in slow motion

She sighs, pondering the madness

and leans to one side

 

What have they done?

she cries to the moon.

 

I nestled every need within the green

but they treat it as if it is a canvas

as if white is blue

and blue is black

and green is grey.

 

What needs could possibly be nestled within the grey?

 

She is trembling in sync with the stars.

 

Here comes the sun.

Let us resume

when man has gone back to sleep.