The woods is where the lines get
wavy,
white pines rising from the hollow
of dead leaves.
Afternoon November shadows cross
the open meadow,
fresh horseshit on the old dirt
road—
the golden path through mountain
laurel,
a family walking by the drought-dry
pond,
wide expanse of river bordered by a
nuclear solar reflection,
ancient steps leading toward the
way through cedars to intending sun.
No comments:
Post a Comment