Summer grasses
along the roadside.
Blossoming wild flowers,
that fill me with longing
to see you again.
And everything in the
cry of the cicadas.
In a moment,
lung-shot batons
full of tasteless glass.
That cough dull,
an ever so dull relentless beat.
To a wolf’s cry, tearing
the butterfly’s wings.
While we hug safety,
and abandon honest
tears to own.
A Wandering Poet 