SJ StoutJune 26, 2024
The old policies weep, withered sheets
of paper tossed out from their podiums
like brown, dried leaves–their cries lost
in the smooth river flow of traffic.
New laws are written on green leaves, deep
and generous, extended like an open hand
again and again and again.
The laws replenish themselves, drink slow
from underground caverns, reach the sky.
And we can finally breathe,
a sigh of relief in the fresh air.
Chirp like birds. Hold meetings where
we congregate, chatter, and fly.