collapsed back into each other
still, for a quiet rest
as the grasshopper sets
itself green sitting on green twigs.
It's exoskeleton shudders in
the black breeze, a cool 45 out
his legs rub quick like sticks
for fire's yellow, yet for it they
create peppered speckled sounds
sprinkling blue and orange, ochre
drops into the dull roar of nothing else.
No, it is not for my distaste
to hear their leg burst wind pricks.
Their stipened whistles whittle
no worry into this, my mind.
Rather, I gather my children
together at the right wall of
our little living room with the
chair still broken.
They crouch on their hands and
knees with their little eardrums
pressed inside their little ears
pressed close to the window slit
I've split to open my world
to the nothing else outside.
Graces grace us with
sweet symphonies of the
grasshopper's chrips. It becomes
silly hearing the thoughts
my children think:
How do they all congregate? The insects
to sing just for our ears that father
made and made to fit this crack
to hear?
I know not how to say
to them that the green sitting
grasshopper will never know them;
ne'er will their green-gray eyes
ever set themselves upon those
of it's own.
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