by John Clinton
green was the shade
of isolation & protection
in between trees
meditative mind mumblings
shall I speak
to the sodden wood?
before milky rain
drops from the ethereal
faint mist carries
the children’s raucous voices
ripples upon
ripples in mirrored brooks
fresh blades of grass
beside the shaved tree stump
in suspended skepticism
for maybe this was it?
decided words
were egotistical & prosaic
for fifteen minutes or
so, I was not
