diluted of

Diluted eyes

are unlike the tranquil disturbances of tree branch
children rippling, harbingers of peace without silence
while zen is in the quiet heart
of a butterfly's fluttering beats
as they bloom upon a mountain
and a heart of stone skips to the crackly sensations
of being broken
into fine specimens of silt.

tell me

of the blue expanse that rests on the palms of your hands
in which puppies pant their final breathes
and buds fade into withered blossoms rather than quit
at a gentle snap of insolent fingers,
because though I suppose the green is
always broken by shards of blue regret,
muddled ripples of brown are okay and
i can see my rambles echoed in the reticent hush
because all the various cogs and knobs of nature don’t is,

they are of.