with much kudos to Edna Millay, whose hate-letter to daffodils (et al) ought to be read, as a kind of alt-creation story, every Spring
I so get it, Edna.
The good, clean earth takes our footfalls
(rash compliments that trample it down)
and swallows them as we check our mail.
Love watches us like stalkers do, with the mixed intentions
of mother and rapist, of a birthday party and a cruel dawn.
We cannot find our way back to nature
(assuming it ever coddled us). Born to its leafy kisses, we thought
they’d restore our wonder as our swollen agendas took it away.
We’ve always wanted it to be Saturday, but check anybody’s schedule;
we’re late for work already and someone is conniving at our doom.
We come so innocently naked, nothing bad might touch us.
The sun’s rays contain all the light that’s ever poured down on a perfect moment,
the garden has no spiders and the rose no thorns,
our gift-wrapped packages arrive before the bill collector does –
and if we get a lousy grade now and then, we can prove ourselves back to God,
who made from us the earthy bric-a-brac we are always brushing off of our clothes.
God, who punishes the wicked first;
God, whose wrath is just;
God, who loves most to kill in Spring.
Brett’s prose writing has been published widely, with essays and stories in Overtime, The Saranac Review, and Weber – the Contemporary West. His “angry, British” novel, I Shot Bruce was published last year by Open Books/Escape Media, and he had a short story collection out in June.