I let the Earth down
because I got lunch and dinner in to-go containers,
just so I could sit outside,
on Earth Day of all days.
I let the Earth down
because one time I killed a squirrel,
I whacked it with the thwart of a canoe
because it had gotten into our food.
I went into the woods for 10 days after that.
I let the Earth down
because I wrote this poem on my laptop,
because I even wrote this down in the first place.
A good poem is a passed down poem.
I let the Earth down
because I once ripped up a woman’s garden,
hydrangeas, daylilies, and rhubarb,
so she could sell her house. Daylilies
come back if you don’t get every last tuber.
She died at the end of the summer, so her son
sold the house and summer was over.
I let the Earth down
because I go on my phone when I wake up,
because I go on my phone before I go to bed.
I let the Earth down
because one time I biked over a chipmunk,
it darted between my spokes. I still don’t
know if I hit it
because I didn’t turn back.
I let the Earth down
because I haven’t washed more dishes
than I have eaten from.
I let the Earth down
because I saw a wildfire,
my coworker started it sure, but
at least he was out there. I was
too weary to help, so I watched
over the children. When the fire
hoses had charred through and soot
still stained his ears, we paddled
to the smoldering burn site, and I learned
that you can get pulled over in
a boat, even in a canoe. We paddled
back, our patrol puttering
behind, the sky was soft like a loon’s
call. I sat in the dining hall with
my boss, and I could hear fire crackle
from across the table.