Timothy Hay

On a cold December, just before dawn, as the sun said Hello! to the sky, the Mantis prayed while the Lamellicorn tunneled and rolled in a threadbare tie. When the Holland Lops in the Karakung Glades indignantly thump their feet and hopped away when they cut their noses on the sharp-tipped blades (which the grass doesn’t mind in the least). And there’s a heat-pat waiting in the chicken-wire hutch where the does from the Netherlands stay, but that dry alfalfa don’t taste like much and we’re tired of the Timothy hay. (hay)

I touched her back, she was lying facedown, the dew turned to frost in her eyes. Me and Sister Margaret on the Pentagon lawn with our wrists in a plastic tie. While the rats by the tracks on these winter days seeking shelter from the cold, make a nest from the tracts of our various ways that they can save their immortal souls.

No Timothy hay.
Oh no…, Timothy hay?
Oh no…, Timothy hay?
Oh no…, Timothy hay?
Oh no…, Timothy hay?
Oh no…, Timothy hay?
Please no more Timothy hay.
No more Timothy hay.
Oh no, no more Timothy hay.
No, no more Timothy hay.
Oh no, no more Timothy hay.
No more Timothy hay.

On a cold December, just after dusk, as the sun bid its cordial goodbyes, we’ll be split to pieces like an apple seed husk to reveal the tree that’s been hidden inside. Which sapling called in a tattered sarong as the seeds from the Shepherd’s Purse fell, broke the news to Mom, we found a better Mom we call ‘God,’ which she took quite well, singing:

What a beautiful God, what a beautiful God, what a beautiful God there must be!
What a beautiful God, what a beautiful God, what a beautiful God there must be!
What a beautiful God, what a beautiful God, what a beautiful God there must be!
What a beautiful God, what a beautiful God, what a beautiful God You must be!