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it is easy to talk about the blooms
of a flower, how the round petals
unfurl predictably and brillant
or how good the first in season
strawberry smells, the center
of it saturated in color so sweet
i could go on for hours of how
beautiful the little things are –
the magnolia, my mother’s hand,
a cat sprawled open in afternoon
sun. impressionism has hold on
us for good reason. but i
feel phony in these relflections.
what a dumb privledge it is
to stare at a flower when all
i do is scroll past pain
that’s clear, daunting, and unjust.
who has the right to joy
as long as their is a child
who will never know a garden
who will never know its bloom
