Missing the wildness of the beautiful
We degenerate into words. Waiting, between
Sentences, for the Muse to catch up with us,
We fulminate, flash like lightning, explode so
Violently that I catch myself thinking this
Is an all an act to compensate for the time
My friend climbed that tree before disappearing
To Japan for all eternity. He wished Haiku was true.
That an apple blossomed cherry blossom flash of inspiration
Could cancel out all the impure repetitiveness
Of so-much empty rhetoric — and the worst of it is
That those who claim the mantle of artist-poet
Can so easily forget that every human life is precious,
And that even those whose opinions we despise
Can open-up our eyes to our own holy imperfections,
That make us love all that is passing, frail, human.