22nd in a series of 26 Sonnets

 It’s time to make a friend of disaster

First, give up hope, it’s not but a false friend;

The process isn’t so hard to master 

Just start with all the empirical trends

Those threshold points in the rearview mirror

(Oh what a metaphor, those hydrocarbons

Tagging along, but back to our point), for

Doom is like a clock now, one fully wound

By our blind past, this garden walled

With merest air grown thick, northlands melting

Cold rivers now rusting with acid, scald

Of rain in northern winters, woods burning

In the midlands, lives grown hermetic, appalled

By scabbed landscapes, no hope at all, none but

For this young girl by me, for her–I must.