It is not dead– just hiding, ostrich like, out in the open and looking ridiculous.
But when you receive an apology from the woman cutting you off and taking the parking space you were just getting ready to pull into, one is reminded of the silly looking bird and how beautiful it is if you just take the time to look.
Vanilla, do you remember the pleasure?
The kind taste of softly regarded fruit,
the pleasing joy made easy and demure
by dainty flowers cast of sun and root?
This delicious honey overwhelms–
“Peace,” I whisper and drink the embrace.
Toss our weapons aside and accept our new alms–
fresh melons and berries picked without haste,
fish torn from the spume by warring women
armed with old rods and ocean tangled hair.
Sun baked bodies begin to knit and mend.
Our pleasure rests on accepting the dare.
A new life at the end of a dangerous road
finding new happiness in our abode.
Some part bitter root of regret
grown too long
in rocky soil with gnawing grubs.
3 parts sour Lemon, 2 parts Sweet Grass–
mixed well to taste.
despite pain to fillings and gums.
1 handful of Constance,
in full bloom
always found under covers
even during the harshest storms
Cook over moderate flame
with occasional passion
and vigorous stirring.