No point in being mad at the
Lilypad. It has no idea what it is doing.
It’s not her fault she grows up
Out of the water, surrounding herself.
No point getting bent out of shape when you
Notice you are stuck there.
On that beautiful island, staring into the
Not too distant forest, trees obscured.
Now I’m ready to catch my dinner and after that,
I’ll just hang out, shredding this blame.
It’s not the lilypad’s problem. It’s not the
Fault of unreachable sky, or aloof forest
Or even the placid pond’s coldness. No one else
Owns this greenness,
And the air right here.