The bright yellow wattle stings me as I pass by

And even though Jesus says to first look at the plank of wood in my own eye

I am irritated, addle-jaded, nervous and somewhat constipated

By the audacity of nature to work in her own seasons and unsated

Her thirst for my blood God knows its sweet and luscious

Perhaps she speaks to me asking why I must be such a succubus

But all I am aware of is the pin prick of wattle leaves and so what

I’m still a rock star so I’ll ignore the message and trample into rot

A glorious day and a peaceful walk I never have learned

To tread carefully so I accept with grace all the scratches I’ve earned