When you go past a farm, look at the animals, hemmed in by fences and tied to trees, trudging through mud and nibbling grass, raising families and sharing the day with friends. Yet at any moment their children and companions could be torn away, and they themselves can be taken off to be killed, raped, or relocated. Their ancestors were great beasts who roamed over large plains and forests, free to raise their families, follow their friends, and fight their enemies. Yes, they were hunted by predators, but they could trust to their strength and skill to defend themselves — both sides had a chance. Now they are merely slaves. Their lives are dictated by the whims and desires of human beings instead of their own, and they are cut off from the worlds in which they had power.

To make kings our prisoners does not make us greater than kings. It makes us small indeed.

There are raised beds of vegetables,
carrots and peas,
little tomatoes and silky-leaved greens,
fine herbs and spices and colorful beans.

It’s dappled in sunlight and rustling leaves,
fragrant from flowers and fruit-bearing trees.
There are apples and olives, almonds and plums,
ripe for the picking when the right season comes.

The light of the morning and the late afternoon
filter through windows and fill all the rooms.
The rain, when it falls, plays most delicate tunes.

The honey wood floor sings soft on my feet
as I hum to myself and pick out my seat
on the low lazy steps by the windowsill ledge
with bread sweet with fruit from the blueberry hedge.

Then I lay in the grass under swaying bamboo
reading stories from books in a dress just as blue
as the sky between clouds forming great curlicues.

I sleep then with insect wings brushing my face,
dreaming that I only dream of this place.
A bright little house on a hill near the sea,
where living and laughter find someplace to be.

Small regrets
Penny wishes
Playing light
Languid shade

Another world
Playing light
Collecting thoughts
An empty box

Hanging sheets
Hanging stars
Wind-chime leaves
Lips apart

Innocence is gained, not lost.
Cry.
The waters of blood are moving;

The dirty become more clean
and become transparent in the washing
and the blood moves into the forest.

For ourselves.

He chased us
Through the villages
We were pins
And he simply crushed
the haystacks.

The colors in the sky
Were green
Horrible
At some point one of us

(I’m not sure which one)

Stopped running.
He looked at him
And took his head back
And laughed.
It melted the sky
and hills
and canyons.
But we still fled
Minds filled with hate.

Our hearts full of fear.