Cutting the Surfaces
Near where I stand the rain
pushes through the Summer trees.
It drops onto the kelly-
green leaves with the sound
of the pad of slippers with-
in an agued morn'
that is expectant, wishful.
Little seas that have
the taint of a muddy Spring
form; drown mulish weeds
that slip through the cracks
of an innovation...
the PATIO? Thus
padding for the " SOUL".
Yet our TURF...Earth...with its own
mottled tints when SEEN
from SPACE, offers the star
glass-like bodies on which to float...
the glister of GOLD.
Copyright © Jennifer Cahill | Year Posted 2019
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