The Chicken Little Fan Club

They sit in a shadowy and murmur their chicken little apocalyptic whispers,

every incident it is a harbinger of impending holocaust.

But their eyes are stuck in the ashen layers of lament

only able to view winters in the midst of summer,

declare every landscape as tomorrow’s graveyard.

 

While they faint and fuss in their constant chaos,

I’m not going to submit to that insanity

because soil has no fear or worries it still responds to love and care.

my fingers shall still sow the seeds of hope,

for as long as there is a sun tomorrow it can still bring a harvest.