Hard heat at noon. If not, rain
that will fall on clock towers,
on train platforms and bus stations
where people spill out of turnstiles
carrying their suffering like hundreds
of flickering storms in their hands.
The harder the rain, the darker the letters
where poems have been chiseled on pavement.
If you took away the bee’s song
don’t you think it would pine
harder for scent? If you took the field
away from the horse, don’t you think
it would canter through the hallways of your grand,
soulless house? Mind the rush and creak of pulleys,
the great bellowing wind arising from newfound
wings. Don’t you think it would kick its way
till it came to even one sheltering bird,
one gold hope still lashed to its stalk?
In response to Via Negativa: Insider.