On the Sun’s day, she called for a walk,

so I obliged, and listened to the birds of Spring.

They sang to each other, but left me out of their songs.

My steps were slow, while walking, to know.

And back in the woods, so far that I was alone,

they began to come, each at a different place

on my path:  those that I fear most –

the snakes.  They wound right to me, looked through

my eyes, never stopping – though I could not

move.  They each wore different clothes, but none

feared me;  they approached.  Stopped.

Spoke their silence.  Froze me in the leafy moment.

Seven times, seven snakes, seven silences,

each of them with something to say.




Mean Girls

When mean girls don’t feel

pretty, they hiss and hurl

words like bolts into beauty.

And if they don’t feel

love, they will watch

for it and strike it down like a viper

upon prey.  With rumors and back

stabbing, hissing lies, little snakes

gather to take down their

victim. Mean girls threatened will hurt

with impunity, slither on the backs

of others. They are so full

of their own emptiness, that they spew

hatred until they crack, and fall

to hollow pieces on the ground, leaving

their dried up skins behind.