a little poetry
green.
We keep the parks fenced in to protect ourselves. Dangerous things in there. Green things. Greeeeen things. Think what such things could do not a nice squeaky clean *white* mind. They could leave a stain. Plant a seed. Grow something. Some kind of green virus. And we might become ill and stop loving metal so much, stop loving plastic, maybe even stop loving paper... And then what would become of us? So we sleep, and the green sleeps, and there is a great waiting.
But we let our guard down on Chistmas time. We bring trees into our homes, thinking that they are safe, cauterized and sterilized and neutered. And the grownups sleep soundly, but the children cannot sleep. They turn to their parents and ask: "Did there used to be something more below the tree? Down there, where it's flat, where the inside shows, did there used to be more?" And the grownups bite back tears and try to ignore the images of rainforests and tundra that spring unbidden into their tired minds, and they say: "No dear, there was never any more. They just make them like that. To stand up on the floor, you know?"
