How come the damp grass under my feet
is unlike my buoyant soul
in that it is not screaming with each plod?
Maybe I think it should react to pressure
the way I do which is why you see these sparks
fall out of my mouth each morning.
The springy heath, the springy heath.
Thousands of dumb green blades bursting
under my people feet because I am not strong enough
in my aching heart to be a butterfly dancing
over the clover. I’m not airy enough to be the robin
in the nest, or shot out of the nest into the sky.
The nerve of some flowers to not be you,
planted right next to me where it would do the most good.
Don’t we all need some loveliness
in dynamic proximity? Isn’t it always good to set fire
to the wick? The best thing about looking
is the wide variety of surprises that pierce the wet
& tender devices we use. This purple pansy
has a sunny head, embedded in purple, & so much yellower
is the morning when it drifts into afternoon
in the summer. How come the calendar advances
like a stoic mushroom? How come it feels
like I’m figuring something out too slowly?