There is ugliness here, the smell of burning flesh hovering over you

like vultures. But you have not seen a sunset.

You have not stopped thinking to swallow the colors it feeds you

a baby bird this time, still unaware of everything but what keeps you alive,

your eyes are closed to the world but you taste them -

the reds, soft peaches, deep spreading purple like ink.

You say the world is an ugly place

as you stare at the flattened houses,

wood splinters stuck in a tree. Hurricanes. Wars. Everything,

you insist, is despair.

But you're wrong.

You have not seen a sunset.

You have not once collapsed in the grass,

felt the wind brush your nose,

watched it run its fingers through the leaves

and realize how tender it dares to be.