my feet felt the grass. mushy from the soaking rain.
soft to my spine too, cushioned my walk to a waltz;

each step, trumpets trilled on the horizon like
a smalltown Friday night football's marching band,

scrunched-up to keep warm, a calliope of nerves write
a poem; tripping the light fantastic begins to weigh heavy.

as the poem butterflys away, stepping into the air.
leaving me. leaving my capture. i stand with wet shoes.

i watch the horizon turn into a flock of geese,
form a V then slice the air into four seasons.

11/06/2010

Posted on 11/06/2010
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