The Spoiling of a Good Walk
Clear water slices through green fields
as precise as the thread of a seamstress,
divides but does not conquer its low red banks,
the grasses fluttering at its edge.
Then the golf mob saunter through,
pulling their bags or rumbling up in carts,
loudly complaining at the treachery of their clubs
as they head toward the ball-dotted sand traps.
They’re heedless of the trickling stream,
oblivious to the cool spring breezes.
A cardinal gives song its best shot.
But failure blocks the senses.
On a chaise lounge,
legs expanded straight,
hands flopped to the side,
body laid out flat
to get the benefit
of optimum surface,
calmed by the heat,
lashes barely twitching,
in full tanning mode,
yielding primacy to skin.
You Are Not a Plant
The water’s drying
not working with you.
And you’re fresh from the shower
not sunning on a window shelf.
The steam rises from you
but you’re not crazy with chlorophyll.
You enjoy the light
but you’re not drawn to it.
You have people to respond to
not the minerals in the soil,
the warmth on your stalk and leaves.
but for your own sake
not as nature intended.