Twig Monologue

Perhaps, not in keeping with the modern apathy.

Definitely isn’t, the new poetics.

It harks back too far – they’re disillusioned now, with all that romantic lark,

It might’ve been only a pear, this mightn’t be more than a twig,

But it’s connected to a branch, to a bough, to a trunk.

And rooted, in

Earth.

A twig on a tree

In front of an expanse, of blue or violet; pink or orange.

A silhouette, I see.

And I know that above that sheet of transcending colour,

Is all the cosmos, unending, incomparably terrifying and

Beautiful

So yeah, it is only a twig, and it’s tangled up

in other twigs, which each have their own silhouette,

Against that ethereal space; marbled in amethyst,

almandine, amber and set, in a tourmaline cloak.