The saying is:
I think,
therefore I am.
So,
if I don't think,
then therefore I am not.
Does this apply,
to the corpse I see,
laid in that casket.
Her hands, tight round nettles,
that carry no flowers or buds,
and make her hands burn and hiss.
But she is not thinking,
so she doesn't feel the pain.
Rather, the flesh,
begins to rot,
off her, and her dress,
is stained with blood.
That dress. The one,
her loved ones picked out
for her.
I'm sure it's a lovely thing,
probably fashioned from a bolt of silk,
and stitched together with care.
But now it is stained,
and no one removed the nettle,
from her hands.
So maybe you should think before you leap,
but don't think to hard,
or else,
before you are even put to rest
the entire thing
has rotted away.
i shout hello to
squirrels playing in the sun
they all squawk at me
i fall on nettles and yowl
my cat looks on with a smirk
My father showed me how to pull nettles without being stung.
With a confident and downward grasp and without hesitation,
To grip and flatten the stinging hairs by following their direction
but I have never reached to do it, or had any to pull in my city garden.
I watched him dig sods with a spade and turn them over row by row
So that weeds would bury beneath each shiny clod and not regrow
But I have never had more of a garden than a small brick-paved courtyard.
there is a pond where the water lillies grow
and children weep for their youth,
the silent forces that make the moth
to pebbled thought entombed
in the shifting light of its bed,
and Nowhere is a feeling.
Remember the morning of the bird,
the obscured pane,
where nature died at once, and slowly
even kisses were sharp and revealed
some secret like a moth-wing in a book.
It is here you recall the thing everyone knows,
or pretends to know.
God allows some nettles among our flowers,
And as we encounter these days of frown.
From the far horizon, a confluence of showers,
To retain life's garden from remaining brown.
Periodically we see our vitality shattered,
As eternal sleep beckons those we love.
We clutch God's hand as days are tattered,
Thistles fixate vision on the throne above.
As we yank at nettles we find seed scatter,
We cultivate and dress our flowers with dung.
The lesson, if learned, only Grace will matter,
Not our slight of hand or glibness of tongue.
On sunny days when universe seems bright,
God discerns we're once more at our best.
Exposed thistles disappear amid God's light,
And He awaits to assist in our next life test.
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