Its a wonderful
Secret
To enjoy the cool Rain
On a dark Night.

The feeling of an immense Treasure
No one else will sense
Alone—
But in good company
With cool drops on your
           skin
And a hope that it will last for
          ever.

But it doesn’t.
And you return with
Rain-Tangled Hair
And their hopes that you
Are not chilled.

Like gold,
First seeming so metallic
Strong
But all along
Supple enough to mold
Around Diamonds.

We have
Plenty
Of what we
Boast
and not
Enough
Of what we
Lack.

The choice she has not
Of where she jumped up
Through the top soil or
Through the grit.

Strong enough she must be
To endure the harsh,
Gritty soil, the mean
Sprays of salt, the constant
Wind from a rushing by.

Despite the struggle, I cannot say
She would enjoy the garden life
Better, but who am I to suppose?

Perhaps its not a struggle
But simply a life adapted to, as
She lives where she survives,
Not where she is encouraged
By hopeful but harmful
Hands.

They flock in the summer—
Sunlight and heat beckoning, even
Advertising an agreeable picnic
Or stroll.

But later, the building’s heat is what attracts—
As the wind whistles
And shrieks across the field,
Through the trees,
Over the ponds—
Not the sake for which it is named.

Yes they hibernate and hide, but—
The will to seek them out
Should never be scared off.

The weight of snow blankets
And the blinding shine of mirrored lakes,
The intensity of the clouded sun
Surely give the most wild experience.

But rejected it remains
As the fields and forests persist on,
Deep in the freeze
Near a wildlife center in January.

a funny smell,
one of similarity, one of that urgency.
a counterfeit stench which fills the room,
becoming so strong; those who never noticed
now cannot sense
anything else.

a feeling of theft now lingers in that air,
the funny smell ever inflated.
too strong now for the once oblivious,
but they suspend themselves
in the weighted air,
waiting for the fog to lift.

the favored exhaust the fact
for what its worth.
its not worth anything;
they do not care to know.

the funny smell
lingers in the air
of vintage, becoming too
heavy to support a breath—