Not to My Winds
I’ve never heard a
nightingale sing, but I
know where blue
bees hide—not in this
metropolis.
City winds do not
speak to me like they do in
the forest, only tearless
laments.
I meet an original god
in every neighborhood, as
common as dandelions
growing through cracks in
the sidewalks.
Aesthetically planted,
never pruned trees
appear more lifeless than
the concrete horse crumbling
in the decaying street
corner cemetery.
A young woman visits
there frequently, talking
aloud for long hours.
But not to my winds.