Butterflies soar to heights we can dream of

spreading their wings in flights of fancy

coloring their surroundings in rainbows

of blues, greens, yellows, oranges and black.

But when it’s burn-your-feet-through-the-sandals hot

where the pavement dares you to fry an egg–

a heat so intense you feel your aorta pumping

oxygenated blood through your veins, what happens

to the butterflies? Can they chance a landing on your arm?

 

Rivers of steamy sweat pour down your head

streaking what’s left of your carefully made up face,

mascara drips down your eyes blackening them

making you look like the tiger-striped butterfly in flight.

The heat rains down upon your hair, making it dank,

strand sticks to strand, your neck wet from it all.

 

If this is climate change, we are damned.

I won’t survive global warming: the arctic melts,

ocean waters rise, glaciers calve at speeds unknown;

polar bears drown on ice floes unconnected to land,

penguins are forced to abandon families–no place

to rest or return with food.

 

How much longer will our earth survive when so many

deny climate change? Do we need more frequent floods,

hurricanes, cyclones, earthquakes tornadoes to prove it?

I fear the mounting conflagration will destroy all

and man is to blame.