I think of the children who will never know, intuitively, that a flower is a plant’s way of making love, or what silence sounds like, or that trees breathe out what we breathe in.
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The soldiers are returning to their posts.
They joined the party, got drunk,
now they are sobering up.
How childlike they are when drunk,
tho’ still arrogant they’re pitiable too,
and sweetness and honesty sneak through.
Now they are sober.
The trees become serious again.
Flowers rearrange themselves like women after love.
Squirrels resume counting their money.
The General goes to work,
when he comes home he’ll demand dinner.
The door to the garden closes.
God assumes his throne.
His wife irons his shirts.