Being Green

The countryside had hills of verdant fields as far as the eye could see.
It was in those fields that I came across a herd of little white goats.
The animals seemed to be bathed in the most calming sense of peace,
Grazing contently under the mild sun. Several kids were there
Amongst the tribe, full of that verdant disposition that only comes
With barely being alive. Then there was the peculiar goat herder
Who, I presume, was responsible for the beautiful and well-behaved flock.
He looked at me with a subtle understanding that I did not belong there,
But was in search of something greater than myself. He explained that
That was what led him to the fields in the first place, and kept him there ever after.
The effects were made evident by the verdant green color of his large straw hat.
It was as if he himself had sprouted right out of the ground.

Another day, another Shower. What should I tackle today?
Wash my hair? Shave my arms? Shave my legs?
Hair mask? Exfoliate? Some combination that
I can complete within the miniscule window
Of time before the water starts running cold.
The water has been getting colder and colder
Faster and faster, I'd say since November.
It's probably just because it's winter, and
There is no hot sun beaming down on where-
ever my water heater is located, shared amongst
An unknown number of my neighborly peers.
When I wash my hair, the accumulated strands
That shed gather around the drain and prevent
The water from flowing. If I wash my hair,
I can't do much else but wash my body, or else
The water will run cold and also start to puddle
Around my ankles; circumstances I cannot stand;
That I will not tolerate. So these days, I am usually
Only doing one extra action at a time, per shower.
Feels too little, but I don't like long showers anyways.

We have plenty of matches in our house.
We keep them on hand always.
Currently our favorite brand is Ohio Blue Tip,
Though we used to prefer Diamond brand.
That was before we discovered Ohio Blue Tip matches.
They are excellently packaged, sturdy
little boxes with dark and light blue and white labels
with words lettered in the shape of a megaphone,
as if to say even louder to the world,
"Here is the most beautiful match in the world,
its one-and-a-half-inch soft pine stem capped
by a grainy dark purple head, so sober and furious
and stubbornly ready to burst into flame,
lighting, perhaps, the cigarette of the woman you love,
for the first time, and it was never really the same
after that. All this will we give you."
That is what you gave me, I
become the cigarette and you the match, or I
the match and you the cigarette, blazing
with kisses that smolder toward heaven.

Some of the greatest poetry can be found
In the wine section of a gas station.
Making wine translates into grand identities
Communicating sacred questions and ideas
By way of otherwise identical bottles of
Something that can, ultimately, kill you,

In a local gas station I happen upon
The Pessimist in communion with
The Seeker in communion with 
Someone insisting on starting a rebellion.
How could I not acknowledge the bottles
Performing for me! And bestowing their wisdom.

I don't drink all that often, but the wine in
Gas stations make me want to be a sommelier.
I want to taste it all. I wonder where the reverence
Of the sacred stems from in the wine market.
Perhaps the undeniably biblical roots, where
Wine is profound, once brought to life from water.
Or the movement of the tides, influenced by the moon,
Regulating the most sacred method of harvesting grapes.

Of all the options one has of alcohol
Wine certainly distinguishes itself
And I guess I'm just saying that the
Brand marketing is really appealing
To me. I am the target consumer.

How many poems could I write in a day?
In a single sitting? And just how many
Would be about writing itself?
Not necessarily a bad thing, but surely a
Prevalent theme that would not go unnoticed,
If this were a volume or published collection.
Thankfully it is not, and I am in need of
Constant reminder of how I think and feel
As the driver of perception. And what truly
Distinguishes this form from general prose
Or reflection? I don't know; perhaps the freedom
To be partial or fragmented if desired,
Or be as linear and complete as possible.
The lines will tell enough of your story.
It is accessible, digestible, and most of all
Revealing, most of all when it is some time
In the future. But right now, the poem's story is
Flowing, unfolding, and will be complete.
By then you can project and dissect between the lines
And you'll surely make something of it.
Most of all, no matter the subject,
You will surely make something of it.

Squirrels never cease to catch my attention
No matter how ordinary or common.
There is something captivating when I see
A squirrel scurrying about on a mission
No different than the one I'm on myself.

They are also quite alarming, sudden, skiddish.
I wonder if they ever tire from this disposition
But then remind myself, it is in their nature
Much like a hummingbird or any other creature
Designed to move quickly, swiftly, and with caution.

I wonder about the squirrels that take chances on humans;
The squirrels that do approach an outstretched hand of nuts
And have no intention of biting. I wonder if they make anything of this.
Do they commit the act of decency to some area of memory?
Do they even recognize it as decency to begin with?

Squirrels are mostly solitary animals, rarely traveling in scurries.
Their habits inform imagery of a fairly uneventful life, survival,
Peeking around corners and calculating next moves.
They seem, to me, all business.

I relate to squirrels more often than I'd like to admit.
I try my best to live in such a way
That I do not see my reflection in squirrels.
But everywhere I go, there they are
And what they illuminate is clear as day.