I wish the world talked in tongues
with rosy cheeks and lips of plump.
Where the moon would kiss the sun
with its crater face and crescent bum.
Where snails would crawl, and slug, and slime
down to a creek in the sunshine.
And in that creek the fish would soar
with angel wings and fishing lure.
The fish would walk onto the land,
fin and fin, and hand and hand.
They’d stay in homes of fishy friends,
but wander off on the weekends.
The birds would sing songs to their brothers,
in music they share with one another.
The cicadas would start to play along
and halt their tune at the crack of dawn.
I don’t need the world to speak to me
with words that are so soft and sweet,
the bugs that fly and trees that sweep
are louder than any words could be.