call me a tree, not a vegetable

i.

within, atop, inside

this green-blue glass globe:

 

i am living; full

of living and nonliving things.

 

i always wondered as a child how water — so

elemental, so necessary — could be non living;

 

how so many living things could depend upon it.

 

like how all paintings are abstract.

after all, what is color?

 

ii.

sometimes it seems as if i am in a war with myself,

and every one else is just a spectator.

 

other times i am a character in a play. years later,

i still talk to some of the actors.

 

i am sure one or two of them think

me callous; that i never really loved them.

 

but, i really loved that play.

 

iii.

while she was waiting she began wasting away,

against all admonition and in keeping with the odds:

 

her body and spirit growing soft — soft enough to meld

into the curves of life’s couches;

 

hard enough not to care.

 

two cardinals flit-flirt in the dirty, leftover snow.

bread is being baked across countries, continents.

 

caracas, venezuela … caracas, venezuela  

sing the children learning the capitals.

 

out of the thicket comes the ram —

beautiful, sacrificial.

 

desire s t r e t c h e d

into delay:

 

within, atop, inside

this blue-green glass globe.

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