Bucolic

Bucolic Bucolic, what a word. I learned it from John Lloyd. A poem like this, is it absurd? And will it get you annoyed? Imagine the grassy countryside. The milk & honey flowing land, or waves breaking at high tide, crashing loudly at God’s command. Bucolic, what does it mean? A pastoral poem, beautifully written. A scenic view, very serene. There we were, completely smitten. I love this word, bucolic. I learned it from John Lloyd. She blessed me with a frolic, her loving arms I enjoyed. As we drove down the coast, bucolic views of ocean blue, they were indeed a glorious host, honeymoon passion we did pursue. Now it’s done, no more left. We’re parting ways too soon. My heart so broken and bereft, surely it’s not a bucolic tune. Yet God is in that word, I learned from John Lloyd. It sounded wonderful as I heard, bucolic now, no more deployed. John Stasukevich 6/12/23