At the foot of the screaming tree
I listen to the winds howl in harmony
an angry litany
of questions piling endlessly
like confused leaves, warm on the forest floor,
on a summery autumn day
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
A Cousin to the Sycamore
When I travel by canoe, by bicycle, by crutch, by foot or by wheelchair I am part of this wide world I am in and of and with the ear...
-
There was a play staged by a forest primeval I had a bit part I served as the stage manager in a play within a play put on for my own benefi... -
I found two square inches in the middle of a medium sized woods in the middle of a fairly large city and those two square inches contained m... -
What the sycamore saw she wouldn't say but she left signs all along the forest floor And seeing the corner of a stained ...
No comments:
Post a Comment