Those insects,
those tiny societally irrelevant
beautiful things,
their lives hold so much meaning.
I remember
how they kept me company
during hard days,
how I’d tearfully watch
as they went about their lives.
Their intricate and mysterious patterns
beyond my comprehension,
but not beyond
my joy.
I’m sitting on the front steps of a lovely church. To the right of me are jade leaves entranced by the rolling of a warm breeze. Birds on branches are chirping a medley that creates a symphonic membrane around the intersection, a visually imperceptible emotive field that cars pierce through with their hurry. Engines rumble as they meld with the horizon. Their echoes fade, then more take their place. The day continues, but it’s nice right here where I am. On these steps, I rest—on these steps, my place next to the leaves.
Buses rumble and bodies move through the busy course-way of life.
The air is somewhat thick, like ice stuck on the corners of fences and faces.
Sullen and weary, the pale sun of the heart still burns, still moves along its arc,
Were hope gravity, the stars would turn and shine their light eternally,
but the night sky is full of long faded memories,
and the eyes spend their tears chasing a glimmer.
Nevertheless, buses of roaming bodies pulse through arteries of cities.
Monuments are built and clothes are woven, sold, and worn.
Plates are molded and food is sourced.
Families eat their fill, though some perpetually chew the rough skin of their sufferings.
The earth with its nervous bowels shakes, its continents drift,
and the dust that powders its face clutters and pulls away.
Everything is war and peace.
Everything is pen and ink.
Everything unsaid has been said
in the bold rumbling and humming
of buses and bodies.
