Nothing gold can stay.
—Robert Frost
We all knew going into this
that Eden sank to grief;
so, clearly, for humanity,
maturity is inevitable—and it's heavy,
and it stinks.
But how did the whole
planet get
such a short shrift—
with leaf subsiding
to flowerless leaf,
and each dawn defeated
in an hour or less? As if
that's just how it is
in the bucolic world? As if,
even the curliest ivy tresses—
sinless or luxuriant,
green, red, or gold-
tinged—had best keep
a look out, since
the charge isn't arrogance,
but existence,
and the plug is
apparently
always getting pulled?
