I’m neither young nor old
carrying the sea on my shoulders
rises and swerves
in downward spiral.
Rains create
creeks and rivers
linking the mountains
and the sea.
Days of bitterness
intertwine with days of sweetness
waves dashing the calm
and the brave.
Young as a child
old as a man
in tumult or silent
running the fields
or hiding in shelters
pursue birds or fowl
with slingshots or guns
with relish.
How are they to discover
the hidden music
if not to relinquish the savage
feel, cruel pleasure
perceived in power
but over the helpless?
How can they follow
movements of the bees
from flower to flower
when they don’t see
the simple things
visible to the eyes?
At the picnic table
we swat away the bees
they, that fill
stages of sustenance
of meadows and forest.
edgarone2
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