The Walk
This tree overshadows that one.
That tree trunk is climbed by the sun.
This fence is high, get over it.
this fence is not white,
it is the color of oatmeal.
That grazing horse is the color of oatmeal.
This walk is a movement of me.
All that I see is a somewhere else
a place walking without me.
Eyes look over a fence – a not me,
some other walker.
Oatmeal eyes reflect a grazing horse.
That tree has puckered bones and verruca eyes,
this walk walks along its shady spine.
Leaves fly like sparrows in my head.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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