You Don't Have to Hate

I hate the fading of the moon,

when the cry of my alarm clock

shatters the quiet of my room.

I hate to sit still,

and feel my hateful heartbeat.

I hate to fight heavy eyes,

trying to convince me to sleep.

Even more, I hate the urge to look closely,

at the whispering trees,

at the growing flowers,

and at my big family.

Because the urge scolds me for choosing agony,

while world was bleeding itself dry,

returning such soft love to me.

I hate that with my hateful heartbeat,

heavy eyes, and spiteful gaze,

I secretly know that from grin to grin,

from day to day, people are not born to hate.

I hate that while I spend my morning in strife,

I choose to be ignorant of dawn’s promised life.

I don’t see that God has just finished painting the start of the day,

mostly with pink strokes,

occasionally with a silver, rainy gray.

I hate to hate when winter is beginning to show.

Hares undergo a seasonal color change,

and their fur starts to mimic the snow.

Cold noses turn light pink,

and from frosty home windows,

bright lights start to blink.

I hate to hate a world where sea otters hold hands as they sleep

to keep from drifting apart in the water.

A world where people share the same affection,

and the grasp of a hand is consistent from human to otter.

From dust, I rose,

with a beating heart, two eyes, and ten toes.

And from dust rivers are winding through the land,

along with animal tracks printed on the snow and the sand.

From dust came the smallest of pebbles at my feet,

the highest of clouds that I can see,

the carpet of moss on the forest floor,

laughing babies, playing children, gentle animals,

and everything more.

Winner of Gold Key in Regional Scholastic Art and Writing Awards