These Things

Red cherry leaves over

Peach custard skies

These things

They do not do well

As accessories

Or, objects of poems

Photographs, the good ones

Perhaps..

But.

What of the sounds

Of birds?

Whistles, and chirps —

Our inadequate words

For the entirety of their language-

The vibration of chests

and larynx and eyes

The pause, the wait, the responding

And how would you

know

The butterfly

That is resting

Its black upper body,

with white columns like Rome

Its bottoms Red like

pencil shavings?

And at rest, it is not a symbol

or a sticker

A decorative vinyl for

disgraceful poets like me

And our concepts of beauty

Or vengeance.

They are, as they are.

But we, the voyeuristic,

insatiable and ravenous

Do not give frogs a chance to sing

Nor the cicadas to croak;

All moment long —

Their tymbals dancing

Furious ballet and kathak

Amidst the buzzing of weeds;

Weeds, we say are useless

Infinite of us,

mocking them

Covering ourselves

in ash.

___________________________

~ Samjam (13/3/26)

Went on a walk

Watched birds

And flowers and butterflies

Close up

For a long time, i stared at these things

Human kind does not deserve nature, with all our wars and bombs

Covering everything living with ash.

Idk feel too tired to say much else

If you're here, I'm glad

Toodles.