We are now eight shrinking years away
from the great grim centennial bash
that marks The Year The World Ended.
From outer space, She looks badly-mended,
poor beat-up Gaia, Her flash
of blue despairing of a better day.
Last year was Trafalgar’s double-dues,
celebrated with a fleet of print
that timbered Belleau Wood to splints
honoring one-eyed Horatio’s final cruise.
Which rain forest will crash down
when twenty-fourteen rolls around?
Memorial days are stained with comedy,
Gaia spinning placid to Her anniversary.