Small Time
the smaller you are
the slower the time
then what must it feel like for snails?
when climbing a leaf
or crossing a street
does your head arrive hours before your tail?
the smaller you are
the slower the time
then what must it feel like for snails?
when climbing a leaf
or crossing a street
does your head arrive hours before your tail?
never let anyone tell you that flowers don’t love
I’m sure they hate, too
but who doesn’t
scorching
sweating
scratching
crumbling
how much longer?
will it go?
i love you, but
i want something new
i need you, but
i have other needs, too
dripping
rumbling
sweeping
soaking
how much longer?
will it stop?
i love you, but
i want something new
i need you, but
i have other needs, too
is that acorn just for me?
one acorn from the acorn tree
Quercus not Lithocarpus
Fagaceae
i suppose you’d want i plant it
in suitable spot nearby
rather than to eat it
so you can keep an eye
i wouldn’t eat it anyway
they aren’t my cup of tea
though you could use one as a teacup
if you were rather wee
throw the crayons on the ground
kick and throw and toss around
smash and smush and scatter and splatter
blend and bash and beat and batter
sprinkle, spray and fling and sling
accumulate, amalgamate
paint and pencils, throw them in
messes need time to accumulate
are clouds scared of death
or is rain a relief
can form lead to consciousness
laced with belief
is there meaning from bringing
new life to a leaf
or will they be part
of a memorable grief
does it feel like forever
or terribly brief
gone in a flash
as quick as a thief
what is this mess
this terrible mess
chaos and crosswinds and carrion crows
among the wheat
among the weeds
waiting for breezes for carrying seeds
growing, twisting, bracing, waving
a messy purpose
a purposeful mess
is it worth it or not
can you guess?
you can know when she’s around
but you never bother to check
and prefer to stumble upon her by accident
without the surprise being wrecked
she’s funny and she’s clever,
she a rabbit, she’s a rock
always dark and always sunny
she’s a goddess, she’s a clock
you can never touch her skin
or have her hear your voice
or know what kind of wine she drinks
if she were given the choice
she’s graceful and she’s kind
sometimes rising, sometimes sunk
never petty, never perfect
she’s a beauty, she’s a punk
it’s not decay
it’s character
it’s not anger
it’s passion
it’s not screaming
it’s song
it’s not hiding
it’s privacy
it’s not dehydration
it’s conserving water
it’s not falling apart
it’s shedding waste
it’s not the end
it’s death