JONQUILS.
_
To be seen,
You do not need to stay where you began,
As the jonquils move from the soil,
To the hands,
To the other hands,
To the table,
In the yellow vase,
Where they wilt,
Falling onto the breakfast table,
Or into the hands of another.

︎

UNTITLED.
_
It is often the smallest flitter of the flower,
Or the intangible feeling of togetherness,
That is the ruthless value,
That we need to be brave enough,
To prioritise.

︎

THE SPARROWS.
_
1.
8 sparrows,
Flit,
Independently together as they peck downwards,
Each making way for the other,
Seamless,
Progressing forward,
Each one,
And secondly,
Subconsciously as a group.

They do not once seem to expect anything of the other,
Or look upward to ask,
“Excuse me, please be gentler with your worm”,
Or to request slower eating.

If there were a word,
That was to be so very responsible for yourself,
That you are beautiful,
It would belong to them,
Maybe it is elegant,
I am not sure.


2.
As they flit,
They by default,
Take responsibility for the whole,
Each energy,
As if a forcefield that moves them all together.

They do not proclaim,
That their souls are dirty,
And must be taken somewhere,
To be scrubbed clean.

Nor stop to anguish,
Or cry out for penance.
As their entire,
Tiny world,
Would collapse.

︎

THE PARTS OF WONDER, THAT ASK ME TO BE HERE.
_
If I were to cuddle the moon,
Who would know if I was cuddling it,
The right way up,
Or the wrong way down,
Who would be able to say,
The right way to cuddle the moon?

︎