I write because I read. I read because I write.
fingers bumbling on
blank spaces of both
the web and the tree’s skin.
grabbing yellows from
bumblebees to paint
sunsets where freedom wins.
stirring orange from
dawn to make a cup
of giggling cinnamon.
stealing sweetness
from apple’s bum—
to have some sanity won.
—
April air reeks
of unperfumed killer
floating with spring,
bobbing as
daffodils sing,
there goes selfish
whims ransacking
shelves of kindness,
in a bid to survive
hunger for toilet
paper arrived,
common sense of
supposed “high-
er beings” flushed,
hummingbirds, sparrows,
laugh at us.
—
