"Babies and Brothers"

We fancy our babies and brothers so different
from young buds
picked from wick branches
by nonchalant hands.

Yet I took countless blossoms in my pincer grip
And twisted them fast,
Unripe, but their branches
Finally relented to my tug.

And I rolled the green teardrops in my fingers
Until yellow and chartreuse
Stained my thumbnail
And then dropped forgotten.

The would-be-flowers hit the earth floor
And reabsorbed into things-
Found a place with things I'll never see.
In an instant those buds became kin to my baby.

But, we fancy our babies and our brothers so different
from young buds
picked from wick branches
by nonchalant hands.

But buds are babies lost in heaps of moldering leaves.
And the spry green folios,
Are brothers taken by stronger winds.

If we were merely branches, we might forget
As soon as our stipules sealed shut.
But our raw places bleed
And muddle our brains
And hearts irreparably.