Peace is

Peace

is a fastidious beast,
it's limbs, long and sinewed
are blush pink and pale white,
crawling across the antiquated nature
of green. I've been above it before -
as it acts
like salicylic acid upon the skins of time,
the dead shed,
crumbling as compost to grow something again,
and the body relinquishing
without fight or fawning.
There's nothing to fawn to
with peace,
nothing too overstretched or burrowing to make
for less than gentlest endeavors.
I watch the Spring spring on a new,
all the aquilegias and forget-me-nots,
the blackthorn who grows her efforts tall,
spikes her virtue, sloes her wine,
I watch the echiums
spire as faithless cathedrals,
her psalms are petals that call to the bees,
her blood is wooden,
I've cut her down when over before,
much like Jerusalem's artichoke,
it's heart sliced from the head,
softened and eaten by mammals after pollination.
Peace does not mind harvest,
sharing, continues that vine through systems disconnection
but here, where the wild breathes,
where hope runs wild like a half dressed youth in Sun,
where the toe dips the water bravely to test out it's warmth,
I feel her
and I'm not much afraid -
anymore.