I was born with 12 eyes
they said it would make it easier
to see the light
but it only left me inching
in a fog
hiding from shape-shifting shadows.
So I learned to consume the dark
with my mandibles
and let it seep in to my hemolymph.
The parasitoids laid out fences
of peppermint and lavender -
trying to cage me.
But the oak tree took me in
and let me rest upon her leaves -
told me to shed my old skin.
I hung myself upside down under her branches
tried to see the world from their point of view
but there was still so little light,
and the birds were cawing
threatening to have me for breakfast.
I learned to hold myself tightly,
wrapped in imaginal discs
that liquified my dreams
into a rich soup for me to drink.
I emerged
soft and wet -
with ommatidia that see in all directions
and bear witness to invisible colors;
and with wings formed like dragon scales,
that move in the shape of infinity.
Now I feast with my feet,
feeding on nectar of Chloris
and cross continents
while they marvel at how far I have come
from the ground they tried to keep me on.

There’s no wind on this mild noon,
While I sit and heed the birds,
Whose songs flutter through static air
From trees in infant bud.

Gnats fly close and dart from my hand,
Scouting the field of my face—
A grievous offense to my peace,
Teasing my patience with some game.

And now, this stingy zephyr,
That denies its easing balm—
With venomous chuckle, it watches
Me stricken with violent discomfort.

The trees, those rogues, seem to mock,
Snubbing incessant insect assaults.
They’re truly quite vicious—
Leering, too idle to offer me shade.

And why are these birds so loud?
What could they possibly need to say
That’s so direly crucial,
That their nettlesome tumult go on?

Standing with petulant ire,
I stomp my retreat from this place,
Bidding nature a stormy farewell,
Bellowing bitter, barbed refrains.

To every chirp, a scornful shout;
To every rustle, a spiteful glance.
The trees will hear of my affront,
And suffer for this wasted time.
©️2025 David Cornetta

They are bright,
and they are beautiful.
With magical clouds,
as if someone had painted them.

The colors that came along with it,
were now blended together,
perfectly going together,
like it was meant to be.

We stare and admire,
wondering what nature is trying to say.
Watching the view slowly fade.

In a forgotten forest glade,
  Beneath the crescent silver eye,
An ancient sentinel casts his shade,
  His emerald cloak, under the sky.

He watches from his solemn knoll
  While the eons slowly decay,
As the seasons turn and take their toll
  And leprous time gnaws him away.

His crooked oaken fingers reach
  Into the boundless twilit air,
Where pale moonlight begins to bleach
  The sky, as silence settles there.

Around his roots, the fauna dance,
  The fleeing, forest-dwelling kind,
Flitting through leaves in a spectral trance,
  Like memories lost to time and mind.

And man—his greatest joy to behold,
  As they recline beneath his limbs,
Escaping the heat out in the wold,
  Their laughter weaving summer hymns.

Yet he mourns over humble man,
  Destined to live out his brief season,
And he weeps for their ephemeral span,
  As their lives flicker without reason.

Burdened with pleasure and misery,
  To watch them grow old and perish—
Each one a fading reverie,
  A moment for him to cherish.

So as man drifts by on tapered years,
  Silent observance is his lot,
Till all their dreaming disappears
  And their memories are forgot.

And yet, this noble oak remains,
  A thoughtful, lonely beholder,
In the forest where his shadow reigns
  Beneath the dome of endless azure.
©️2025