Anything

If only you could have been anything else,
a rock, say, or air, but no -- anything
one can think of can foul, erode.
But there must be something
other than the flimsy flesh that
houses you, other than the tiny
perfect head caressing tiny thoughts,
neurons firing by day, by night, prone to destruction.

If only I were not the assassin
who willed you into being,
who wheels you down the silent street
where you point a fat finger
toward a new blossom, until
such time as you walk, run
dance, fly away, and in the end,
absent it all.

The thought is a shudder
on a day full of sun
and periwinkle skies,
green and amber mountains
beckoning us onward,
while below some little ant
busies itself, un-self-conscious,
free, so damnably free,
as long as we don’t happen
to crush it while strolling on.

Copyright Julianza Shavin 2006