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ideas for a new earth

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  • Abigail Wilson

The Liminality of Frogs: A Love Letter to the Earth


©Abigail Wilson 2022

Tonight, I have walked down the street and crossed the tracks at that gap that must have been a road once, guarded by the broken teeth of ancient warning panels. I stepped over the still stretches of metal connecting me to the west, ducked under the power lines brought low by winter’s white weight, and now stand here, on the last ragged patch of grass.

Above me the dark still shines with that subdued twinkle you only find in the hollers, where streetlamps are a bother and the neighbors’ distant lights are as quiet as they are.

The last rays of sun burn orange on the long-armed, gaping maw guarding the muddy gates. It catches fire on that part of me that ran with the monkey wrench gang, and I wonder briefly how much sawdust I would need to stuff inside one of these bullies before they belched their last.

But this is not some big dam, or the future site of an extractive corporation. They are building homes. And you, who are our original home, can you forgive us for this? For wanting our own kind of security, for tearing apart the home we had for some new vision?

From here all I can see of the hole is an empty space beyond the near horizon, but I know that it is deep. The blasts have shaken our foundations now for a month or more. I want to close this wound of yours, but I don’t know how. My heart is heavy for all the homes that were destroyed: of rabbit and mole, of warbler and quail, of elder and goldenrod and the sheer joy of purple asters.

Some of us will say we knew not what we did, but it isn’t true. We know. Some even celebrate the slash and burn, the blast and churn. They feel safe in the sterility of their synthetic houses. My love how can you ever forgive us?