today is my perfection.
bright, cold breezes chill
the house corner. everyone is gone.
the clouds are, too, hurried away
to meet others like themselves.
the trees have greened. grass is
longer in the yard than the neighbors’, and
I want to swim in it. immersed in pages turning, I find
the ents have mooted once again.
Blogroll
of writing and books
people
places
dream of things:
archives
meta
beautiful poem. (I blinked, because I read “ents”–it flowed in my internal ear and I knew what you meant and then I went. “Huh?” Because logically–I didn’t. Illogically, you pulled it out of a deep dark place where I keep things I love the sound of and archive for later.)
That’s interesting, Jodi. I’m not a poet, obviously, just reading more poetry lately, stuff by Richard Brautigan and Wendell Berry. And it’s there when I’m goofing off, reading LOTR and having fun in my little world. Thanks.