Evening Silence Poem by Jeffrey McCambridge

The liquid surface of puddles
will never last,
giving way to the dryness
of all sorrows.
The silver face of the moon
refuses to show herself
and leaves the colonies
of all the ants alone,
who above all
need each other more
than our small minds
could comprehend.

Leaves make dust underfoot
and scatter throughout
the fields of grass
the greens of life
all turn to brown
only to feed the green,
I am the Bolivian Rainforest,
and the sugar canes in Haiti,
tilled with blood
the Napoleons could spill
but never erase.