I
wonder wither why the whipporwhill
whines
a plaintive cry
and the robin shrills
her calling a mate
the daffodil does not make a sound
the rose just stands beautiful
wiregrass grows so bountiful
and corn is hard to make
the season's make a mockery of spring and fall
and winter has become a memory
where tall trees stood proud
and now a thicket
grows of thorns of nettles
I think
of nature
in her way
genius considerate
and man
as a tick a flea
on her back
a bloodsucking
leach