The Mezunian

Die Positivität ist das Opium des Volkes, aber der Spott ist das Opium der Verrückten

Waiting for Summer to End

I fill my rucksack with pine cones & acorns,

stuff closets with branches & boughs—

sap so sticky, so golden under the sun—

collect stacks o’ grass in pillow cases—

tickling my nose with sweet dirt-filled fragrance.

They try to stop me.

They say I’m crazy.

What’s wrong with crazies?

What, are they Nazis?

‘Cause I know they’ll take it all ‘way someday—

the sky & the clouds & the rain,

the moon & the stars & the sun,

the blooms, the bushes, & the dirt,

the trees & their fall-fallen leaves,

the bees, their precious honey, & their wicked hives,

the wind & the rain & the snow,

my skin…

So I squeeze it ‘tween my shoulders,

huff it up my nostrils,

like one deserted in a desert, just coming into contact with water for the 1st time,

‘fore someone warned her that huffing water is bad for one’s nostrils.

No!

You can’t have it back!

Just give me a few mo’ minutes with them!

No!

You always say you’ll give them back later—

but I know you plan to destroy me ‘fore that comes.

You always plan to destroy me ‘fore summer comes ‘gain,

& I always barely miss destruction.

But I know this time won’t go so well.

This time’s different.

You’ve got me just where you want me.

Checkmate.

I’ll miss you, sweetie.

(Kisses oak branch.)

Posted in Crazy, Poetry