are the roses the poses of *** scented
posies daffodils the  long stems of grass
the moss the rutting of rabbits
in the field(s) without
ravaging man's hands and intrusions

If we were more the masters might
we plant more hibiscus or petunias
or forget-me-nots
and I see
the mastery of natural selection

by being the one selected out
and it happens and
life goes on
and the fields bloom with beauty
year after year
with or without me

but man is jealous
of nature and seeks to tame
the untamable
the wildness the random
seeks to explain why
and hold to his breast

a velvet touch a silk rose
his wisdom
as better

It must be the freshness and freedom
an issuing forth from night's rest..
It is flow from a real self
before the veiling of day's concerns..
There is a springing of words
seemingly from the morning sun
or from the silence of the new day
not yet stained by separation's illusions..
It is a portrait of ourself
as we always have been...

I realize  that when you asked me to  feed your two calicos
while vacationing, I wasn’t given title to  pluck four large
tomatoes  from  your perfectly trained  vines.

The tomatoes were Christmas red, unbruised
and husky. It seemed criminal and unfair
to my palate not to devour them
by dusk the day I stole them;

in my shallow defense
both of your cats
repeatedly hissed
at me when fed.