Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly 
For the Last Judgment draweth nigh 

Auguries of Innocence, by William Blake


Thank you for being who you are.
A gift from the multitude of stars
Blessed with both heart and soul:
You shall not grow old.

Who truly knows all the dark crevices of a person?
Not I.
Love is too often hoarded, accumulated, squirreled away:
Like money, jewels, power, prestige.
Cruelty persists.

I love dogs and infants and hobos and screaming rooks.
At night I can be at peace,
It is rare to meet your lover at sunrise or sunset.
These times belong to the poor and weary.

We must not forget these ghost-ridden times exist.
For the rarity and grandeur of sunrise and sunset.
We exist in spring rains and passing showers.
 Gravity persuades us towards perambulating beneath the moon. 

Time, like a river, floods, urgent and precise.
Children need protection for life. 
Even if the sun is not over our heads, like quantum physics,
We grow to love  these bloomers of flowers,
the rip-roaring energy of children and young dogs.

Humans are sick to death of cruelty and death
Casting its jagged shadow here, there, everywhere,
We must counter this with all the kindness we possess
To those we love and, more especially, to the discarded and dispossessed poor.