Both are true

by Allyson Mills

PFAs permeate the foam piling on the lake’s edge before me and the Broken chair is still stuck in the shallows from last year and Metal tabs of next door’s Natty Lights tempt gulls and Plastic bags, pennies, and bottle caps the fish and Bic pens and hairties and styrofoam bits and Hot dog foil and a white plastic fork and Underwear and rusted tin shards and Cracked solo cups and lids and Other unidentifiable and Squalid abuses.

Yet when I drink my coffee, Looking out at this same water, Rolling stained glass curtains veil Weathered rocks bathing silent in this Chilled early December haze, lapping slow, Steady rhythms as if to say I’m here regardless. Two ducks float behind the branches of the willow, Sleeping naked as icicles cling to join her and the water While another paddling of mallards glide along the horizon While the mist cradles the forest edge While a humble reflection wavers on the still, slate water While the squirrels rustle, the songbird sings, And the waste management truck beeps.

Walking up frat row littered with Seltzer cans and shattered Corona bottles

A kaleidoscope of white butterflies frolic among The hopeless detritus of puke and pizza crusts. This is the grace of the world, wild things Turning our obscenity into beauty. Both can be true of the world. Both are true.