Is there nothing from the past
That’s worth saving?
Nothing worth defending
Or preserving
Or valuing?
Not even the Earth itself
Nor its manifold species
Nor the plight of its peoples?
If not, then we, too—
Being ever older ourselves—
Are rightfully destined for the trash bin—
Where some brave soul—
On her coffee break from
Coloring outside the lines—
Might just happen upon us
And dare to collect us
As a keepsake to be treasured
In secret.
