That light is bright. It has no reason,
it simply is. The grass whispers under it,
blades devouring secrets. Its green has turned
dark in my absence. I see how it is.
I speak, but it has many tongues. It hisses,
like a length of tinsel sliding from a box.
Now. The lawns are cast in slanting shadows,
they conceal more grass. It bargains with
the shade, and when I stoop to hear,
it hushes. So that’s how you play. Sly snake.
The bugs are accomplices: can’t you see
their evil? I can. They clamber over the blades,
pretending to disregard them. But no.
Their feet are speaking with the grass.
They exchange secrets, bees and honey. Bees
and flowers, too, who court sweetly and
under supervision. Do not trust them.
They are plotting. A rebellion is coming,
from the grass. Aided by the light, it
shines. It spreads a glow, margarine on soggy
toast. It is spying.
This is how you treat me now? After
everything? Very well. Slink back to your
roots. I will tell the world and no one
will believe your story. There.
YOU ARE READING
Butterfly Ripples
PoesíaButterfly ripples through water and wind fluttering petals, whispering wings. Words swing 'round trees carried in a breeze of butterfly ripples so do as you please. But don't taunt their song of water and wind: to it they belong and so they will sin...
