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           Honeysuckle breathes in the shallow wind,
Life's lapel, with a side of ground scouting gopher.

Great rusted machines peak the interest 
of the flower children who blossom 
in their fields of hope and family.
Goliath Oxen and Thunderbirds 
that burdened in oils and toils of heaven and earth,
lay there like ships fused with shoreline,
brought down by an angry sea.
"The follies of Men",
thought the Owl,
as it lubricated itself and shuddered a cowl,
admiring it's prototype as it flew by 
in a curtsy dip and brotherly slant.
Sister chant.

She gave a little dance and reperched her stance.
Wondered about the Ai Owl 
in Jason and the Argonauts 
of magic and her sister, romance.
"Well, things are back to normal,
repopulation, the dinner bell,
down to earth things."

The eyes of the Earth are beautiful,
periscoping from the comfy nooks
to survey the land,
enjoy a little morning television.

The bones are solid and suitable 
for the labors of love.

"These wrinkles are the folded fabric of time, 
the bark, no different,
as it loosens it's cling, 
old age has it enjoying last caress
on my earthen womb, 
before Mother takes it home,
to be born again.

My seas and Mountain Dens,
caverns and open spans,
ready to deliver all over again."

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