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