Walk the rails under a high blue sky. Find the sag in the leaning fence, and step--carefully--over rusted wire. Follow a peninsula of blond grasses through a lake of loam, and come, at last, to the timber's edge where gray branches trace the sky and rose hips curl near purple canes.
Thursday, April 9, 2015
Where The Mower Missed
One can note
the unsightly fringe
of grass blades and
the suborn bit of weed,
or
five purple wings'
blue rivers running
toward a soft yellow center,
and (if close enough)
the tenderest scent.
One is glad that the poet did not miss what the mower missed! (And one is grateful to be reminded of the especial potency of a small poem in a really good poet's hands.)
One can note 
Choices . . . so well imaged! (TCR could use some poetry, I bet . . .)
ReplyDeleteThanks, Beth!
DeleteOne is glad that the poet did not miss what the mower missed! (And one is grateful to be reminded of the especial potency of a small poem in a really good poet's hands.)
ReplyDeleteThanks, Thomas!
Delete