Shall I be a thistle,
pink in april,
and fluff on the breeze
by august?
Or shall I be a creosote bush
spreading out in rings
for ten thousand years?
A silver salmon,
rotting on the gravel of my youth?
How many of my children
will make it to the sea?
A ruby-throated hummingbird
descended from feathered dinosaurs
encased in lazy river mud
a hundred million years before
Now sipping on wisteria,
and escaping the bonds of gravity
and hungry cats
No comments:
Post a Comment