Sometimes, there is poetry in everything I see,
everything I breathe.
Images become words
that blend together and become prose.
Tree trunks so damp they look charred,
a wet Brown that climbs upward,
boosting Reds and Yellows
until they have enough reach to touch Blue.
And then I stop breathing.
Pulled from my pretension.
My overly romantic reverie,
to notice, startled
a wasp nest hanging above my head.
I pass it quickly
that I may still be able to find myself
in nature once again.
But it’s too late now,
and I’ve already gone too far.
I can no longer hear the whispers of the wasps
as I leave them far behind.