Timothy Hay - mewithoutYou

on a cold December, just before dawn

as the sun said Hello!

to the sky

the Mantis prayed while the Lamellicorn

tunneled and rolled in a threadbare tie

while the Holland Lops in the Karakung Glades

indignantly thump their feet and hop away

when they cut their noses on the sharp-tipped blades

(which the grass doesn’t mind in the least)

and there’s a heat-pat waiting in the chicken-wire hutch

where the does from the Netherlands stay

[but that dry alfalfa don’t taste like much

and we’re tired of the Timothy hay]

I touched her back, she was lying facedown

as the dew turned to frost around her eyes,

me and Sister Margaret on the Pentagon lawn

arrested, our wrists in a plastic tie

while the rats by the tracks on these winter days

seeking shelter from the cold make a nest

from the tracts of our various ways

they can save their immortal souls

[oh, no… Timothy hay?

please, no more Timothy hay!]

on a cold December, just after dusk

as the sun bids its cordial goodbyes,

we’ll be split to pieces like an apple seed husk

to reveal the tree that’s been hidden inside

which sapling called in a tattered sarong

as the seeds from the Shepherd’s Purse fell,

broke the news to Mom,

we found a better Mom we call 'God,'

which she took quite well

singing, what a beautiful God there must be!