Things
This hay:
golden misery, roots fed by history, brittle and dry, tickling knees, causing
a sneeze.
This lagoon: placid and firm, easy to see through, drinking the wind, cooling our
summered skin.
This rock: Solid made from liquid. Metamorphosis how we construct history,
a place to rest, an object of death.
This weed: an unwanted irony of beauty, invasive seed gathering light from a
fertile need, capable of choking the breath from a natural flower.
This cloud: Mass of nothing, it seems, floating above, blocking the sun, the
aimless drifter that multiplies loaves of bread and fish to eat.
This love: The earth in me. The ground on which I sleep. The food nourishing me,
unpredictable terrain, from where we originate and will eventually
return to give back, so easy to abuse, so important not to lose
sight of,
what we reap; so we become.
Oak Roads: Poetry and Musings 