THE WORM

the nightingales are sobbing in the orchards of our mothers and hearts that we broke long ago have long been breaking others

-W.H. Auden

turn it over in the dirt,

love that could have grown so bright,

(all the griefs we come to choose

seem so equal in the night)

the night’s cold air and earth below

only shadows of the seeds we sow

 

who lives in chaos like the birds

would rather fly than sleep

would listen to our jumbled words

and (gently) (slowly) (softly) weep

he who watches over 

the neither mad nor deep

 

over songs we struggle 

to transcend 

over wrongs we somehow

never mend - 

let them drop away from you 

as birds have other things to do

 

August 22nd, 2011

April 24th, 2012 Lanikai