The lark is mad—
and the nightingale’s tongue
is shorn to silence it;
the tree whipping its hair
in the wind is no tree but a girl
frozen in her tracks, stunned
from a blow to the solar
plexus, disarmed by the sound
of the lock turning clock-
wise in the door, the whistle
of wind escaping from its cage.
Such flimsy power in the mouths
of the would-be gods; and the wreath
of their petty accusations, the spit
that shines and sours in the dark.
In response to Via Negativa: Blithe spirit.