“It’s not about what it is, it’s about what it can become.”
― Dr. Seuss, The Lorax
Workhorses of a seething-bustling,
and alien world that we barely see
its glory and gore
acidic stew of swallow
and cilia claws
but for the infrequent frightful protrusion,
threatening a sting,
or a siphon
sipping the living juices of us,
savagery in the encounter.
And yet they sustain those who would crush them,
self-defense or not,
fill the undergirding of our world with germinating life,
exchange and commerce in wildflowers of the fields,
manicured gardens of urban rooftops
and edges of the sand dunes.
They nourish us with sweet meats
of the trees
and gifts of the earth’s panoply of gallant beauties
pageantry of roses, peonies and daffodils,
and green godly goodness of cabbage cool,
beans of the vine
and broccoli floret
the browns of nutty seas.
You, pinpoint friend, swap the day away,
flitting from one sweet hollow to the next
and dusting yourself with your wares,
plying your trade
and all we breathe better for it
respire by your daily toil,
though your armies are micro
smallest of the small,
and most benign.
Some will warn
not to watch,
not to near
our swelling flesh worse for the encounter.
Carpenters of the Carribbean,
homed amid the yuccas
while others gnaw at our backyard decks right here.
Crow swims in sunflowers and black-eyed Susans,
carpeting himself the golden sun,
while sumptuous sand specialists
hang in the hills of North Carolina
or the Eastern Shore dunes,
skimming the edges for life.
drinks from his nose of a tongue,
buzzing about the Badlands,
sucking up sweets from the wells of bells,
trumpet trollops of honey delight,
a piña colada of rum and pineapple pollen bits.
But big old bombus and Metallica and modest-us,
modest in size,
half a rice grain wide,
who carries her goods inside,
a vomitous gift
her babies survive
or they die
Health of heart,
health of earth,
home to hordes
4000 kinds strong
all native North American
only 40 left home
to honeycomb here
home to homo-cides
if they are we are.