A Beaver and His Pile of Wood

I have spent years trying to cultivate a mature heart.

I read the appropriate books. I stare at artwork.

When I see a pendulum swing I make comments about

how the earth moves, or how isn’t the concept of time

a delightful notion, or how politics is common sense on fire.

And what a beautiful politician that red tulip would have been

but I cannot keep myself from laughing at an anecdote about a beaver

and his pile of wood. And how I made a reference to a nipple in a poem once

and how Tolstoy must have felt when he believed the devil to exist

in his writing. I can’t control you little red tulip, or the woman beneath my skin

howling with laughter.