one she calls “my pet,” and the other “peeved.”
Why peeved? What injustice writhes in the willows today–
a bird-pecked worm, a spider-spun gnat, or perhaps, a rattler
gargling rat blood? Yes, you bemoan those victimized but what
of the black widow’s guillotine or the Venus’ trap door teeth, do you,
oh peeved? Does she, my pet?
We recognize her, the way her head tilts to catch the sun’s
catered rays to the swan of her neck, the hint of heather on
her breath, chamomile in her hair.
Dawn loves her perfect poise and light; there she’s her
element. Why argue with nature, my pet peeved? She’s
who we are. Be sweet now, love and comfort smile us happy.