Tardigrade
poem
he did not ask to be born
in subterranean ice
subatomic knives
leaving scars upon his soul
he did not ask to be born
in bubbling sulfur pits
acid eating away at
his will to live
he did not ask to be born
in this superheated vent
where predators abound
and food is scarce
so all I can do
is plant my shrubbery
a promise of
soft sun
light breeze
good food
and a warm
embrace