04-16-2014, 06:19 AM
The Old Road Tree
Those days buttered bread with moss,
a trick of the light telling me time
was a snail shell, not the leaking tap
dripping dry in the dark.
That sounds O.K.
Elastic summers, where farmer’s hay
towered to warn us of broken ankles,
It stops being as strong here. The broken ankles might have significance, and if so, that's that.
For no right away logical reasons, I thought something like
Elastic summers, where farmer hay
towered warning us
of winters where snow piled thicker
than my father’s spade, collapsed
No real logical reasons, you understand.
with the old road tree in a missed storm.
The door to childhood flung
like a broken toy, leaving nothing
but the black and white space,
A couple times I thought: blank and white space; but I was just thinking too much.
the fallen kite tangled at your feet.
None of what I said may matter much. It was just my feelings and thoughts reading it only a couple times. Maybe I should read it more and more from and into it.
Those days buttered bread with moss,
a trick of the light telling me time
was a snail shell, not the leaking tap
dripping dry in the dark.
That sounds O.K.
Elastic summers, where farmer’s hay
towered to warn us of broken ankles,
It stops being as strong here. The broken ankles might have significance, and if so, that's that.
For no right away logical reasons, I thought something like
Elastic summers, where farmer hay
towered warning us
of winters where snow piled thicker
than my father’s spade, collapsed
No real logical reasons, you understand.
with the old road tree in a missed storm.
The door to childhood flung
like a broken toy, leaving nothing
but the black and white space,
A couple times I thought: blank and white space; but I was just thinking too much.
the fallen kite tangled at your feet.
None of what I said may matter much. It was just my feelings and thoughts reading it only a couple times. Maybe I should read it more and more from and into it.