They season the mud,
Nature’s blood, its testimony proclaiming
Ancestral pride, and a glimmer of a
Salt it with your stupid… condiments?
Compliments and awe.
They call him their best friend
But they have never spoken.
Ignore the pain, the raining in the woods,
In the words; they clutter-clatter-clutter
On the roof.
They’ll evaporate someday.
They broadcast their silent heresies
That speak to me in haiku policies
And prodigies. Self-proclamation sells
Their enigma; their mystery cowers inside a hollow box.
They don’t always have themselves
To answer for, or to, or from, to
See it all. To witness a new beginning
And feel something end.