THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

It wasn't her

She didn't go to sleep

It was the rose that covered the house
Rosa moschata

It hadn't flowered for years
because of the weather

but after that winter
with all those frosts
it bloomed for the summer

You could smell it in town

It wasn't her that awoke
not at all

Things got mixed

STRESS ON THE MOORS

To be warm


we must consume---
wood or coal


wind or water

and in this jostle to survive


we deprive

in this small town
all that lives about us
of food


and space

The snail is eaten


by our rats
The birds are eaten


by our cats

We clear plant and build


as we please

Nothing is at ease


nor content

No tree may grow


to its fullness
No space may grow


to a need

and our small creatures
that had small cause to hide
must be furtive

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