Jealous of the Trees - 07/15/10

Jealous;
green with envy,
red with rage,
black with heartbreak,
blue with sorrow,
white with pain,
rosy with embarrassment,
and purple with stress;

what a rainbow I am:

making something bright
from the
drear
of the

pitter patter pitter patter slip and splatter

of the rain
on the cold cement.
But it’s summer,
so there’s little rain,
so I suppose
I’m just the mist
from the garden hose
as it brings to life
the shriveled and dying plants,
brown and gray
from the sun.
Dead and useless.
No need for them,
no help for them,
no want for them,


yet jealous of them?


Yes,
jealous of the dead things:
the way they
scrape
against each other
in the wind,
beating out an eerie music;
the way they break apart
so easily,
so happily,
break down,
and float away
on a gentle breeze
that makes them make their music.

And the wind, too.
How it moves,
untouched by howls and screams
and pain and dreams
and broken hearts and poetry
and death and longevity.

And forget not the trees:
stable,
sturdy,
strong,
even the saplings
spring forth with
shrill and
soft determination
unlike anything
I’ve ever seen
in man or plant
or bug or beast,
grow the trees
with strength unmatched,
minus,
of course,
the ax.



And the weeds.
Yes,
the weeds.
The prettiest flowers
I’ve ever seen
that grow in
the sidewalk cracks
and the gravel
and the gutters
and the gardens
and anywhere else possible.
Living anywhere, anyway.
And surviving.

Even thriving.