this one

The Summons


Not unlike a jury
whose comradery is bound by a declaration of
blind    justice

we sat crouched in our
canopy of green light

hoping our ever loving
wonderment of possibility
would lift us high
into the clouds of
our own making.

The recipient of our good tiding
would be crushed by our want,
slowly diminishing the prickles of a millions well placed
protective spherical needles
protruding
from our untouched skin.

Our sweet-nature,
too much for most,
like fly paper
--too tempting--
a fly would die in its might.
With sticky wings beating, trying to free or fly out,
injuring itself, weighted, by an ounce of temptation.
We were fly, we were the paper.

And we whispered to the honeycomb,
and hollowed trees
whose branches bore our weight,
and the message we spoke, sank to the roots,
sucking up the sap of beauty.
Our mighty mighty hunt for that one,
who would carefully let our head
linger and nestle in our soured bosom,
waited in the muddy banks
of the river we wept with love.