Nameless Amelthia
I saw the un-socialized one
wild as the furious sun
where caverns met forgotten air
that stirred above us everywhere
intent on getting things done.
I wandered, wandered to this place
where one lost child matured.
Without attention from her race
her spirit was undisturbed
and on her sweet, euphoric face
shone homeostasis unperturbed.
I watched this marvel lass at play
with everything she saw.
Nothing bored her on her way.
She left the very trees in awe
and danced around the caves and creeks
for love, for life, for days and weeks
she told the Earth she keeps it well
for all it offers, is, and yelled
as loud as any thunder clap
that ever dared to holler back!
I’ve never seen such pleasantry
nor dreamed such life could truly be
as that which she impressed upon good land.
I’ve never seen such honesty
as in the smiles of canyon trees
as she would touch them with whichever hand.
There is, I think, a place in time
and space where being alone is fine
which promises to all the soul
there really is no empty hole
attuned to one’s unruly step
and wild ambition. And though she wept
sometimes when awkward shadows crept,
the moon and stars and all that stuff
were hers, all hers! Her life WAS love!
That is until I shot her -
until I bagged her up;
until I tranquilized her
for a couple of thousand bucks.
I took that lost, forgotten child
now grown to womanhood
who wasn’t found out in the wild
that thus became her neighborhood
the day she wandered off too far
into inviting wood.
She made the news - I made the rent
and that is how that meeting went,
but I can’t help along my way
wondering back to yesterday
before I pulled the trigger where
she fell, if life is better there
even amid the savagery
of nature’s maniacal monarchy.
Wind sings they gave her a pretty name,
Amelthia, and I heard she came
to dinner just last Tuesday night
dressed head-to-toe in pristine white
in front of camera crews so we
could follow her progress on TV,
but fact is I don’t want my place
if rent funds come from such disgrace.
So, I’m out in the canyon now
where she should be to see
the faces that the flowers make
at buzzing bugs and bees
as shrubs and grubs and even flakes
of winter dodge the trees
to paint the puffs upon the lake
with frosted artistry.
They say she died of heart disease
and I 'spose that’s the case.
A broken heart sounds right to me.
I saw the look on her face.
