April Hibiscus

I sat curled in a shabby blanket on the cold ground, lost in thought under that glittering sky, a million piece black backwash of stars, eldrich light a memento of eons long past.

The radio announcer earlier that evening read off a litany, still ringing through my head: the Larsen B ice shelf collapsed, the Ross not far behind, butterfly and honeybee colonies collapsing everywhere, Tuvalu’s citizens applied for Australian citizenship as “environmental refugees”.

April in Canada, there should have been deep banks of snow. Instead, I was looking at brilliant blooms on tropical hibiscus plants lined up alongside my house, blooms that were months too early.

We have passed the point of no return, courted our own destruction through greed and ignorance.

I tore my teary eyes away from the brilliant, dinner-plate sized blooms, back to those ancient sky lights, so cold, distant and remote.

“Please don’t send us too far into the void”, I whispered to the sultry April night.

Lilly Jones