The Little Brown Ones
By Betty Cross
The little brown ones,
They gather in their silent throngs
Occupying our front yards
As if in silent protest.
What do they want of us?
They seize hold of our shoes as we walk into the house
As if to demand our attention.
What do they want from us?
We want nothing of them.
The ones who piggyback into our houses
We call trash,
And throw them out with the banana peels
And the empty yoghurt cups.
The ones in our yards
We call yard waste.
We shove them into great piles,
Place them under arrest,
And confine them in large plastic bags,
Until Solid Waste Services takes them away.
They are not really silent.
Their language is known only to a few.
But I the poet hear with understanding.
I can parse their sentences.
They ask only one thing of us.
"We are not garbage,
Nor are we trash,
Oh two legged five fingered oxygen breather,
But we are the dead.
In life, we produced the element that gives life to you,
And kindles the fires so vital to your great metal carts.
We lived millions of years before you.
We never needed you,
But you always needed us.
Our only demand is,
Will you please make sure
There are always plenty of leaves?”