ONOMATOPOEIC

Bugs buzz.

Their sound is incessant,

annoying, biting, invasive.

My rationalizing mind

is like this:

vindicating, justifying, excusing.

When I believe what it’s telling me

I become what I am hearing.

I become onomatopoeic.

I become the sound 

of the bug. 

I become the buzzing.

Best to squash this little beastie

before it starts its thrumming.

Before it takes me out of Nature, 

my true nature - which is 

still, quiet, and calm.

Best to silence it.

The onomatopoeic prick 

of its sound 

poisons with 

its invisible stinger.

When I get caught 

in its insecticidal web

I never find the poetry 

in its poeia. 

Never!

And that's not good.

Or should I say:

its web never has me 

hum with surprise or 

the deliciousness of delight.