It’s sad to think that my concept of wilderness
only stretches a few miles outside
that the shadow of the car against the sun
is all that I can touch
of those trees.
Like all of the poems I decided I shouldn’t write,
they stay unblemished.
Like the tears of a boy who is so beautiful when he cries,
they are left on their own.
And for the good of the cause
I am glad I cannot interfere,
yet still my pen wishes to make
but it’s paradise.
And there are some days like today
where I don’t mind sitting back