it is not exactly joy
that brings me
softly through the barefoot pines
of a June dawn
it is perhaps the dew,
the awe of feathery grass clumps
under my rough arches,
the harsh press of
acorn caps loving my whole journey
the sweet stolen moment
of solitude,
the vain attempt
to do the nothing work
of dissolving...
just an arc of breath
by the sycamore,
the slender black bird, hopping
on a dead branch
among the ribald orchestra of summer green.
No comments:
Post a Comment