It collapsed upon itself from so much complexity.
The leaves that formed the hedges, uniform in size and shape, decided to grow new veins and stippled variations.
Someone installed a mobile of paper cranes under the blue awning of sky.
One way traffic, all left turns.
X marks the spot where, a long time ago, a red sweater came unravelled.
Every once in a while a peacock flashes its jeweled fan; this is called flirting.
Persistence is rewarded by a flask of ginebra and a matadora’s muleta.
Danger lurks where you most expect it.
The soil is your nearest radio station: this is why they say Keep your ear to the ground.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Above the roar of the creek, a flock of goldfinches whistling:
- Still Life
- (poem temporarily hidden by author)
- Year’s End
- [hidden by author]
- Why Not
- By Ear
- From blaze
- Panis Angelicus
- Cold Country
- Perpetuum mobile
- Aubade, with no lover departing at dawn
- from Ghost Blueprints
- Signal No. 3
- Sixth Luminous Mystery