To be Alive

In the mornings's still-cool air, I turn away from
News of wars and massacres, and tales of predators
And prey, of power used for private gain, of fraud
And thievery, rottenness of all the sorts engaged in
By my grotesque species, toward what seems
A placid realm of butterflies and swaying trees,
A river flowing silently below, beside untended fields,
Until I hear some nearby whirring, angry cheeping.
When I turn my head to look, I see three hummingbirds
At war, defending access to a feeder (from which
All of them could eat), and, sadly, I must tell myself
The ugliness I see in humans doesn't differ greatly
From that in the rest of life.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 134 times
Written on 2019-08-09 at 17:31

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text