Who Are We Anyway? | John Grey

In your sleep without end,
you're just a bit player
in the use of moss and grass,
roots passing through your skull
on the way to light and glory.

I'm more attuned
to the dead squirrel I buried in the garden.
His decay grows my tomatoes.
His bones are the shoulders
on which every pumpkin heaves.

Flowers come through you singing
but no one hears the song.
Whatever I pick,
place on the table,
is a rodent's epiphany,
the fine tuning of a short life
of hunger and fear.

I'm sorry that it all can't fall into place
the way a sermon would have it.
It's not the grit of ancestors that grows us
but the nasty side effects of sharing this world with others.
Sure, I bring you flowers from my garden.
But who plucks the heresy of your blooms?