I am a victim of climate change.
The atmosphere keeps changing and I all can do is adapt.
I'll plant my seeds and wait for them.
The weather reads its memoir to me
and it's not until the wind whispers by
that I see myself in the clouds one moment
and in the rain the next.
I'm in Seattle one moment and
Hungary the next.
My mind is a garden.
A curiosity of color and dirt;
a jungle of fruit and weeds
showered by sun strength.
I am a victim of life.
The wilderness expands and all I can do is stride.
I'll plant my seeds and then plant some more.
.
