I am senseless, like the seasons;
like the low hanging branches
snipped to provide nourishment
for the strong to survive.
What do we hope for when love
can be bought and history
stacked behind a barn to be burnt
in a Darwinian pyre?
Eagerly staring in to the white flame
I hope to find some semblance
of myself - but I am lost—food
scattered in the wind for Spring.
