by B.J. Buckley

Grasshoppers have made
of burdock leaves a tattered
lace, petunia's glad rags torn
to shreds, those brilliant scent
songs trumpeted to sphinx moth,
bee, and hummingbird, all silenced.
Velvet cloth of coleus vanished,
leaving veiny threads, that loom
such softness once was woven on.
Voracious maws, it's clear G–d
favors them, their appetites
for the garden we escaped,
it's clear G–d loves their
relentless insatiable chewing,
and why are we surprised?–
these chosen angels not forbidden
any fruit or tree as we were,
whose wings click like rattlesnakes
when they fly, who never
made G–d lonely, as we did,
when we turned our face away.


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