The birds, the sparse
park grass, those meager
city tress—
all possess
the mentality—to teach
not of other things, but
only (finally)
of themselves—
without words
or lessons;
no translators, zero traitors
hiding from stinging bees
in the zinnias, or hanging
dead from the catalpa branches.
Why can I not seem
to do that?
Why shouldn't
the music
of this very
rhythm? rattle
swiftly on without me.
