BY MARK CLEMENT
Copyright is held by the author.
It’s the second month
of the twelfth year
of the third millennium.
The doomsayers are everywhere,
harvesting “the word” to prove
the “time” is upon us and even the Mayans,
an ancient South American tribe,
feed the ‘end-time’ stories.
This morning I’m still here.
If the world has changed I can’t tell
as I look out the window
and see a fresh blanket of snow.
Maybe the brilliant snow is a sign
hiding the last dry leaf and covering
a once lush lawn. Perhaps the earth
will become a giant snowball
and we will all perish, not in the fires
of hell but frozen in a sunless world.
The pundits proclaim, as they always have,
that the devil works in mysterious ways,
sneaks up unseen, disguised
as an everyday event such as this snow.
If this snow is the work of the devil,
I’m really fooled as I’ve witnessed
the same February scene all my life.
Each year this white stuff falls,
keeps the earth warm then melts to feed
the quietly sleeping seeds of new life.
All I know is this devil forces me
to wear heavy winter boots, a thick
warm coat and spend time brushing
this evil stuff off my car. Damn! I hate
the end of the world.