Immaculate

Everything was immaculate once,

before the streets were swept
before the grass was only green,
and the sun was pushed to a corner. 

Before we labeled the world beautiful to please ourselves,

dawn, 
unassuming, 
knew all that there was. 

I was clean before I showered, 
and shook the dusty rose
from the sky.

I watch the ants build their hill:
stringent order, 
without passion, 
or semblance.  

It soothes my anger for this world
into something cool and tasteless.

Little words fill my mouth 
as I watch the leaves fall.

I breathe. 

Tiny drops of love and hate, 
caressed in the tilting of a wind born maple leaf. 

Immaculate 
and empty, 
I sigh.