To ask me why I rage, I cannot say.
In truth I’ve never ever asked the wind,
why it moves through tall trees by the way–
asked why a river suddenly will bend
where human eye would think it should run straignt–
asked why some birds choose night wherein to sing–
asked why saplings will grow tall and straight
or die before they green another spring
or searched, mistrusting words to answer why,
or found that words reveal the truth at hand,
while left unread all poetry must die
though virus runs amuck throughout this land.
My voice will lift in protest and in rage,
unheard, unwanted here upon its page.