Just, moving on. (poem)

Nods his head, Smiles, Snaps his finger, Moves on. It could be bad, it could be massacre, but he moves on, upon his garden without shoes on, without a bulldozer, no massacre. A garden of roses and peonies waiting in full bloom to be pluck for someone in between making cups of themselves filled with nectar for sherbet, so fragrant so charming, so darling in waiting.