Part of me says,
get a room already,
or a hollow stump,
or some more private place
than the middle of a busy trail…
part of me would avert my eyes
and slide on by,
as I would teenagers on a bus
but part of me thinks
“Here is nature in the raw
as we seldom see it…
and such a photo op!”
You can see which side won.
The Swallowtail lites in the top
most branches of the minature
apple tree in our yard
and hangs, exotic fruit,
early ripened. If I reach to pick
the Swallowtail will be off,
making its erratic way
to its next perch, fluttering,
always just beyond my fingertips.
Only the heart is equipped,
is agile enough,
to pick such fruit.
In the new grain fields of the modern
intensive agricultural of Austria and Hungary,
red poppies still surface: waves and pools,
streams and puddles, of bright poppie color,
undefeatable, bold against the green and gold,
just as they always have, time out of time…
as though the earth is bleeding for the gentle touch
of the old ways: the horse plow
and the scythes and sheaves of harvest…
for the absent birds, the hare and roe,
pushed to the edges by these
monocultured, manicured factories of grain,
factories of gain.
And there is a part of me
(the better part I think)
that bleeds with the poppies.