Disappearing into the Green

Nothing aligns at the end.
The calendar says you’re done,
Stuck halfway between leap years,

And it’s a month, but the moon
Isn’t new or full. Waning.
Information only turns

Ordinary animals
Into spectators, robbing
You of any innocence.

Now, you can’t just plow your field,
Feed your family foraging.
Something amazing’s always

Plummeting death from the sky,
And who can go calmly on?