All the Time There Is
The frost has sunshine within it,
light shimmy’s, and the earth is lime Jell-O
Time to stand in line,
to wait upon the lark and finch
until songs arrive.
Be always in the middle of a poem;
find yourself lastly at the beginning
with no real title
just the odor of burnt paper.
This world is a time machine;
a main-spring rewinds itself,
on and on it goes, until we get off
only to reappear over there
on that far mountain
as falling snow.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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