Roots
I am younger in words than Shelly or Wordsworth
not as old as Shakespear's sonnets,
should I care?
I never did read a sonnet, that I could bare
to eat whole.
Those carefully quilted works of yore speak less and less -
so forced, so fed to the very last tooth.
Poetic perfection has a shelf life.
A fresh salad gobbles up itself.
Don't be annoyed, I did not invent the wooden ruler,
or the yardstick that inches along the page.
I go just words; I got words like roots
for tumbleweeds, and dandelions.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2023
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