The Birds and the Bees
The leaves hung like hummingbirds hovering for food. In swarms of suspended metals, autumn’s glinting deposits waited to settle on the scorched ground.
Next came the wind. Warmer than a lover’s kiss, colder than a refusal, it took me in its swirling embrace unsure whether to throttle or enfold. Me and that last of all trees in that last of all places.
Those leaves that remained whipped about like bees stinging at my skin, my throat, my everything. In beauty, I died.
We all did.
She ran between the raindrops like a mouse who’d lost its umbrella. Flitting from flower to flower, mushroom to mushroom, upturned coffee cup to empty packet of crisps, she wept through the ancient forest. Why? Because even the little folk now know us, and that’s enough to make anyone despair.
I had thought nobody capable of such a relentless barrage of inspiration. He cajoled and reaffirmed, appraised and approved, all us little people grateful for his attentions. In time, we came to demand his praise as if he was some minor deity on an undeniable upward curve to God, who in his so doing would drag us with him to incredible new heights. All the while, the sun smiled down. All the while, it burnt us.
He showed us his blueprints written in elegant script and full of every conceivable detail. We smiled and cheered; I even bought him a drink. Not one of us understood them. Not one of us had a clue as to what the sum of the whole would accomplish. Yet our messiah was a humble man and claimed he did it all for mankind’s betterment, that one day we’d sit by new rivers together and raise a toast to nimbus skies. Who could argue with that kind of humility?
I was sold. We were sold. Never once did we question him.
To Be Continued…
The sun hung like a golden bauble decorating a cerulean sky. Basking in the pleasures of its gleaming self, the celestial body shone and shone and shone regardless of our wishes, as if predicting what we below desired rather than asking the question. A constant Christmas, our personal star, our gift, blazed above with the beaming smile of a demented patron, and all we could do was accept its citrine self. We had no choice. Who could blot out the sun?At the sixth month of relentless sunshine, a certain someone, who for now shall remain nameless, made the cataclysmic decision to correct God’s supposed slight. He would reinstate the clouds and with it that precious resource the rain. Life would return to its blissful ways, Eden reborn. His message, more idealistic dream than practical proposal, inspired others to aid him in his task. I’m ashamed to say I was one of them even if my heart was not in it. “Cometh the rain,” he’d said. “Cometh the man.” Who knew what it meant if it meant anything at all? In truth, who cared?To Be Continued…
We bled for each other, the world and I. The liquid of life flowed from our veins in torrents of gushing pain; no one saw it. One minute here, full of life, effervescent, the next husks. We emptied in silence; it left us without the energy to cry. Mirrored, we were, the world and I. Pale reflections, we died together.
A world is crying
Its tears going unnoticed
Dew on the green leaves
The trash accumulated swamping Earth's bins