I think this is what I wanted to say.


Rainwater dries on grass – a sweet bite smell
catches my throat and dazzles into bliss
a moment, then it’s gone. The sudden hiss
air bleeds from radiator. That works well –

a simple act performed that keeps us warm
three months of cold and thus it satisfies.
If grass is starved of rain and sun it dies.
Rightness in things that keep us safe from harm.

These the small rites of gods of home and park
that give us much though they do not transcend
like theologians’ vast amorphous Friend
a comfort toy we clutch at in the dark

demands much, little gives, polices intent.
With small gods and their gifts I am content.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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