I used to believe flowers
Were under-aged trees
When I was a child.
See, I was young and small,
And colorful and beautiful
Just like the tulips and buttercups
In my mother’s garden.
Adults were taller, sturdier
And far more rigid than I.
They were less likely to be blown
This way and that by the wind,
While I spent my days swaying
In whatever breeze blew. I tossed
To and fro, giggling as the wind’s
Fingers caressed my skin.
Back then I believed all of nature
Mimicked humanity’s course–as if
We were heroes of existence–
Just how I would go around telling people
“I pity the fool,” like my hero, Mr. T.
I’ve since come to realize if that connection
Between homo sapiens and the rest
Of creation exists, the relationship is the opposite.
It is our lives that mimic plant life;
Our societies, no matter how complex
We consider them, mimic that of animals.
A stone is my hero now. I admire
Its silent strength. Who among us
Could dare disturb its quiet reverie?
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen