Change, don’t come knocking

like some door-to-door salesman, chatty
asking about my kids, trying to sell me
windows like some long view into tomorrow
Is it future I want? That small reward
like chocolate after broccoli, the thing
to get past to get to the thing—

(I am poised here, perhaps; to yearn
back is to fall, to yearn forward is also)

Change, don’t come knocking with glowing
reviews, promises, predictions of my want
to pretend my footing is sound; I talk myself
into steady plodding content

(Change, come spilling earthward
a glitter-sharp breeze, a bright flitting
bird singing mysteries

or a quiet cooling touch
soothing shadow
in the night)

Bees, Kids, Stonehenge

We breed them for calm
We hijack our own future
We will be buried
rows of standing sarsen stones
puzzling some other species
Practicing tanka for the Yeah Write September poetry slam. Also reading this article about stolen bees and this article about a new discovery near Stonehenge.