I practice emotional exhibitionism.
I publish deeply personal things for strangers to read,
sometimes with the quiet pleasures edited out,
the turmoil left. Other times vice-versa.

Our minds are not our own
our hands do the work of others
our feet follow paths we did not make.
This bus doesn't stop here.

The cattle in our pastures feed their own calves
The calves grow of their own accord, not ours.
If we lead them to slaughter, can they forgive us?
If they can forgive us, will they?

Slippery frogs do not wait to guess our intentions.
Human or heron is not a choice they ponder.
A stem of grass trembles, some spots, a ploop, goodbye.
So go all things green.

The music of an October evening
in a small town
is a descant of wild geese, up in the darkness
above the hiss of ripe leaves.

Green things will be gone soon.
My greenest days are faded now.
I've forgotten some accidently on purpose.
Others get greener with age.

My hands crack and ache in the dew.
A hard spot in my chest might be bitterness.
If I had a soul, it would be yellowing
like an old newspaper in a drawer.

If you lead me to slaughter,
I would forgive you.
I wouldn't second-guess your intentions.
A stem of grass trembles, some spots, a ploop, goodbye.

Originally posted to ruleoflaw on Wed Oct 02, 2013 at 05:54 PM PDT.

Also republished by Badger State Progressive, Rebel Songwriters, and J Town.

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