A Volume of Carelessness

You smile down at me from the perch you so clung your heels to

A garden variety tyranny

Your ghost, made of milk

The tree you grew in my living room

Exceeds my reach

More parable than structure

The turnips too, which sprout in spring

Although bitter, at least they are kind

The mushrooms memories have no story of origin

The scholars of disbelief

And the pot which belongs to the flower holds the lightness of boulders

Their roots have legs stuck deep down in the mud

To unpack them requires a brute, impractical strength

Not unlike that of flight

I have known those that use intellect to damage

To chip at the soft underbelly

And the roadmap back from apart makes less sense

The spoken word lost from the echo of brain to mouth

A relief almost indistinguishable

But finally the canopy is a drone of an unstruck heart

A flavor held in an ephemeral shell