that it's all relative, it's all about proportions
really, not inverse relationships
unless it's a strained relationship
between all of this new life, and your ability
to absorb all of this new death
when a child runs to you with an overwhelming pride,
a yearning for praise and admiration,
and a jar of fireflies, of course you say well done
of course, your heart aches for innocent creatures
trapped in jars, there's a bit of time left, a bit of air
to enjoy while it lasts, this Spring of life
when a small creature can feel triumphant
over other creatures, can overcome fear
of the unknown by scooping it up
in hand, feeling it wriggle and beat and pulse
and place it under inspection, observe
its behavior in unnatural surroundings, is a curiosity
not easily satisfied, and not so easily found
later, when the tables are turned
the creatures are coaxing each other into jars
and that's when the fear returns, when few bother
to punch air holes
or drop a leaf inside
A poetry prompt from NaPoWriMo
I guess an elegy is supposed to end with consolation and solace, oops... so maybe I'll write a new ending for this at some point.
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