in urban cocoon
we feel her heartbeat
the circadian rhythm
of Gaia beneath our feet
overlaid in asphalt
and unsung by the birds
in an endless summer
still, we use the words
of an earlier time
and call this spring
as though seasons
were still a thing
we cling to a clock
to the artificial tick-tock
of a life support beep
and those who notice
mourn her and weep
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