Even then,
even when I feel defeated,
I lie down on this banig,
knit my gaze
with the softest emblem
of fleeting grace and parading beauty above me that might never fade—
even when all glory does,
and feel honeydew sap
trickle on my skin.
I rest my case here
and let the mouth of the mound
devour what's left of me to breathe,
and I will thank Him
for the buzzing of the bees
that stung my ear,
the stubborn weeds
that clung to the depths of civilization, budding wildflowers that burgeoned
from the carnage of yesteryears,
and the soft whispers of the wind cradling me to sleep.
All I have is this world that speaks of love in sundry dialects: of hoots and hisses,
of succulents,
of corn fields,
of tides
and of hues imbued in the vast horizons, blanketing the murky tales of the world.
All I have here is never-ending, even when in a flux, and I will thank Him for it.
