Old Tire

A family of possums
living in an old tire.
Waves of morning glories
drowning an abandoned Chevy.
Who planted these
flowers in the junkyard?
No one, friend, no one.
I would rather love
the smallest good
than hate the greatest evil.
The robin weaves
her nest from threads
of dangling moss, dead twigs,
too ardent for outrage.
The moth does not protest
the evening of the world.
The honeysuckle's thin
silent trumpet
conquers the night
with a drop of dew.
What are you resisting?
Be open to the kiss
of rain, the sun's caress.
Expand this vulnerable
sweetness of your heart
and bees will return.
Here's the revolution:
sing in the dark,
be grateful.

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