It’s in the Showing

In poetry one is not to tell but to show, so I’m not going to say
anything, not tell I live in van Gogh nature, and I know of field
where a million burgundy poppies vie for attention, as a beauty
show where every girl looks the same and you hope a girl will
come with thunderous thighs and a generous bum just to break
the ennui of perfect plastic beauty; why should I tell you that
when you can come and see by yourself. I also know, but will ~
not tell you, by end of May it will all be gone, straws will be ~
pale and dry, shriek in pain when trod on. That is why I have
a cistern and collect every drop of water that falls on my roof.
You can come and see for yourself, lift up the cistern lid look
down and the tiny fishes that swims there will think you are
angles. I’m their God, I have told them so, sometimes I shout
down flick a lighter, just to make their faith unfaltering. I’m not
sure if it works anymore last year, when the cistern was full,
I bent down to test the water, fell in and screamed for help.
A wise silver bellied fish may have said: “If he’s God why did
he scream for help? Anyway he needs us more than we need
him, we are the ones who keep the water clean. You see, I have
told you nothing only shown you a world where fledglings jump
out of their nests, to test their flying skills, and never make it back
home again.