Death's a jingle.
It's true, alive I was often buried in a book.
Sure as I was human, as centuries passed
what was then an eBook became
an x, y, zBook. I cannot deny
I scribbled “the English language is a hive—
a drone, I bring my honeyed proboscis
and compound eyes to the queen.”
Now I’ve something to say to flowers
outdoors and often indoors,
my metaphors in pots are not hiccups.
Like a raccoon on all fours, my book
crawls along, growls, buzzes a liebestod.
Tears, dew or rain may cause a seed
on my book to flower into something
that living things may graze upon.
I want, I want my book
like every living thing to be edible.