What dew on the petal,
Who’s moisture before,
Found solace in my uncertain plight?
She of soft flesh,
Her black and white sense,
Will I see her again,
In the stars of the night?
Ideas do drown in spasms of light,
Where poems lay down to die,
But I,
I am slight,
One with, but apart from the night.

I so much out of touch
of these humanities affairs
Caught listening for every lisp
every subtle shift
of social media cares
I so thirsty for the feed
Of my ego-maniacal need
For outrage hard and crisp
Me scrolling through long lists
Of new postings every day
All in search of mean things
I so joyfully hate to see
Speed-reading my frantic way
Through an obsolete humanity.

How very small,
quiet she would be,
Walking up softly,
to tickle the tree,
So livid with laughter,
A melody of scene,
Escaping out through,
splayed fingers and leaves.

Fleeting sweet dreams.
So lovely a trill,
her voice would quiver,
Throughout the green hills
a pleasant light shiver,
time sensing relapse,
Beginning to tremble,
So hard she did struggle,
to clearly remember.

Uncovered, unshaded.
Only the tree could bear,
Such artistry unaided,
And shuddered to think,
Her beauty had faded.
As late evening fell,
In amber drenched light,
The light of the faerie,
Leapt into the night.

Among high hills,
Dark streams did glisten,
The wind fell silent,
The tree there to listen,
Restless in sleep,
she waits in her dreams,
for memories so vague,
of tall laughing trees.

To all those silent.
Who remain willfully quiet,
Reflect on this,
When death creeps confident,
Under your door.