Monday, April 11, 2011


Late summer
Lie on the ground
Staring up blankly
At branches
And crowns

That leaped
At them
Early in spring
Have all passed
Them by
Saying a thing

Far up above
Tall and unblinking
The flowers
Find love
With the breeze
And its inklings

There is only
The pheasants
Those left
In the field
That are willing
To harvest
A Blueberry

- So up they go -

Over the soil
And under the sky
Far beyond fences
 And bushels of rye

where they'll make
Their own homes
And they'll live
Or they'll die

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