How difficult it was to
remain a simple truth,
as passive grass
with no frills.

I was ready to talk
heart to heart.

You cannot stand all the ink,
writing, simple verse, furtively.

What was eating you up,
I asked the milkweed.
"On this summer, monarchs
were not coming to breed"
it said.

I felt the unease. Grappled with the
amount of pain, at tiny thoughts.

The scale and brutality
of the times, the throats slit open.

Like a clam you shut up.