How can I pick the days of anger out of a field of happiness?

By Alexandria Somirs

Animosity’s repression dug a hole,

 I’m quite sure,

 And soon there, took residence, a contentable mole.

He lived there quite happily,

The earth above pounded with distracted footsteps,

Too quick, too impatient to let live small similes.

And down below his dependable nose,

He felt the humid silence, from where questions were posed.

“Of all the seeds that were bedded,

Of which were of anger?”

Animosity answered, “the seeds of which were buried the deepest,

The ones least likely to flower,

The ones most likely to sour,

And spoil the earth of their weeded source,

And set the field afire with their selfish course.”

Satisfied, the mole posed another question.

“Of all the seeds that were bedded,

Of which were of happiness?”

Animosity answered, “The seeds that lie on the surface, the ones I’ve not bedded,

The ones least likely to stay content in the earth and lie,

The ones most likely to shoot up to the sky,

The ones that bloom with the sun,

And feel lighter than an elephant ton.


Photo by Alexandria Somirs

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