this is not a poem from me to you.
this is a message from the moss, the rock, the deep and ancient blue.
they have asked me to remind you,
for you have forgotten the view.

you build your towers of meaning, you spin your abstract schemes,
you chase the ghosts of essence through philosophical dreams.
but listen to the truth that hums beneath your feet.
existence precedes essence. the world is complete
before the naming, before the thought, before the word was said.
it is the living body on which all your dreams are fed.

do not call it a resource. that is a bankrupt term.
it is the fundamental, the unasked, steady firm
context of your breathing. the water and the air
are not commodities to be traded. they are why you are there.
all your systems, all your laws, your fragile, brilliant arts
are secondary things, borrowed from its parts.

this is not a value judgment. it is not a plea.
it is a statement of fact, as plain as a tree.
your ethics are a story you tell inside the storm.
to believe your story is the weather is to be profoundly, dangerously warm
in a fiction of your making. to violate this ground
is not unethical, it is unsound.
it is a delusion. a spectacular mistake.
a dream of being separate from the water that you take.

so i am just the messenger. the words are not my own.
they are whispered by the mycelium, the blood, the seed, the bone.
the first primal principle, on which all else depends,
is that the living world simply is, and everything else ends.