Among the flowers and grasses, tiny yellow-and-brown things with wings land and take off, take off and land. Should I be worried that I do not know their names? I lift one of the things from a flower stained with its excrement—so small to have made such a big mess! Looking at this nameless thing strips me of all notions of superiority. I know that the day is coming when my own stains will be concealed by the undertaker’s art. But that day can wait. I still have stories to braid.
A woman sleeping
on a green park bench wakes up,
stretching and yawning.
In a field of strange surprises, one chipped cup appears;
Yellow roses near the lip have faded with the years.
A clothesline pinned with tables, along with rusty tools,
Earns heaps of raw derision from mouths of Sunday fools.
They say the world is flooding and seas are black with ink.
But who knows what the truth is, and who knows what to think?
The end of time’s upon us, and dust coats every shelf.
But what’s the use of cleaning? Just leave that to the elf.
More The Whirligig #260
More Writers’ Pantry #14 at Poets and Storytellers United
Aztec Ruins National Monument, Aztec, New Mexico
Retired and rusting farm truck, Yuma Conservation Garden, Yuma, Arizona
How many journeys to market
Did the old yellow truck make?
How many miles of deep potholes?
Tell me: How long did it take?
Poem and photo © 2016 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More Shadow Shot Sunday 2
First blossom of 2015 on a palo verde tree, Sonoran Desert, Southern Arizona