The Hostas Are Out
Hydrangeas are thriving, drunk drivers are driving,
the creeks barely flow and are fetid
where dragonflies dart and, for the most part,
things are well, though good men are beheaded.
In a chapel, a choir rejoices with fire
while a beat throbs and blares from a Chevy
that rivals their hymn with its own brand of vim
and the world teems with light things and heavy.
And the world is chock-full of the goat and the bull,
the catalpa, the hawk and the cloud,
the mountain, the sea, the giraffe and the flea
and the music of Earth—light or loud.
The boulevards bustle like leaves, which rustle
in linden and pied sycamore,
while explosives go boom and the world has no room
left for jaguar, red wolf or macaw.
The robins are trilling while girls, though unwilling,
not even pubescent, are wedded.
Yes, the hostas are out and the bees are about
and various men are beheaded.