Quiet, Please…

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Quiet, please…

Death, it whispers;
it is a subtle clamor.

I’m writing
about a sprite
that’s accidentally
tethered herself
to an arch of grass
with an errant
yarn of breath

that slipped
from a child’s life
as he gathered acorns
to toss at butterflies
siphoning nectar
from a marigold’s flame.

Listen. Do you hear?
The frantic peal
of her wings
and her heart,
that terrible
vigor and thrum.

The acorns…
each drop like thunder.



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