Trample, though not unwelcomely, its voluminous carpets;
A bed: freshly and morning-made to lovingly crush
The ground becomes the natural molcajete to the foot
And the new-released fragrance rises around your body
It has never been pitched into stormy bays
It has simply waited; been and seen
For years long before its tempestuous, colonial cousin
And its incense of inflorescence shall wait still,
For the feet of those who, perhaps curious, tread well after.
Do I knock over this
Anthill at my feet?
No.
I think I well let
It continue to
Be.
Which saplings shall I choose to cut today?
They are unsightly
Tightly banded together
Like raucous schoolboys
And they block out the nice sun,
But I know all capable of producing mellifluous-scented blooms, one day.
So, which sapling shall I choose to cut, today?
Beauty is
The green
Mingled with
The brown
Latticed under
The shadows;
Rich underneath
The black
Supports above
The colored
Growing things
guy de truc 