Friday, April 7, 2017

Tasting Birch: a poem


Let the wind blow you
down some path you’ve never taken,
no, take no pictures with your cellphone,
write no notes to yourself.
Let your eyes water
tasting white birch dabbed on blue sky,
or
Fluff and hunker and chatter fluent
red squirrel.
Did your “to do” list
fall on some wet leaves,
creating a Rorschach inkblot
that defies all the must-and-should lines?
Plant it in your garden,
and let it push up daisies

in their time.

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