“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label for resting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label for resting. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 8, 2016
Mountain Men
Listen,
It said to
Stop & Breathe
Forest
For the Trees
are lain out like a lumpy quilt
pinned to dry under fiery skies
of patchwork orange,
a citrus of sepia
trimmed in sheeny emerald
sat in
wonder when a wind yawned
wide, stretching cool brisk air
over my shoulders
gently stirring the quiet giant
in his bed of canopies
where he lies leisurely
tickling the sky
who cries in merry laughter
some times
while nobody's watching
He must have just turned over
and fallen back
in the deep
thickets, amongst
the dark womb roots
settling down
lulled by
a song
Foresting.
Image titled 'Orange Forest' [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Feather weather
Before I arose the tangerine sunrise squeezed its citrus air through my bedroom window dripping fresh pulpy nectar of a new day onto the co...
-
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
The ship sailed West on Sunday The wind was too wild on Wednesday Our arrow plane rips the paper sky, severing space for itself, i...
