Singing from the edge of a spring seasonal pool, a chorus of frogs
A place to gather words before they get lost.
Singing from the edge of a spring seasonal pool, a chorus of frogs
Melodic bird song: One lone nightingale, warbles under the moonlight
Whispered note, a breath, a conjuring frequency, one lone ear-worm, left
Along the edges of highways and roads, flowers - wild – paint the landscape
Suddenly: verdant - where brown dirt was, now grass grows green as the eye sees
Curved edges bending inward, the leaf as a cup collecting raindrops
for Algot
The field is abuzz with noise, an interlocking orchestra at work
Yellow petals drop; the bent stem droops – an aged man picking up papers
A palm-sized pencil, accidentally kicked by a kid, rolls its way to my foot, an invitation to writing; the graphite snaps before I scribble out this poem
a sorta Sijo poem, for DS106
Though seemingly lost, I am not; I am thinking of intersections