One tree in a forest
One stone on a beach
One face in a crowd
Chunky frozen snow
Crunches underfoot
Shhhh, hisses the Moon
Be still
Listen
This I do
But all I hear is the Moon
Simmering on the snow peaks
Shhhh, Say I
To the full flood moon
Which does not know chagrin
Ahh, my friend
Replies the Moon
Would you have heard my sizzle
Had you never listened?
Kyle heads out
To recheck the lashings
I like that about him
He never leaves anything to chance
Always stupid checks his own work
That, and he always buys the first round
“Not one,” said he
With a tone of
Finality
“Well, what then of Blorange?
Which the Welsh named a peak
Then too there’s sporange
A spore sack, so say scientist geeks”
“Ah, so indeed there are rhymes!”
Said he, though shaking his head
“But, what poet would use them?
Such odd freakish terms
I’d be seen as deranged!”
I find a beauty here
More remarkable
Than fading orbs
Or heated tones
Here in my solitude
Borne of a love
For icy blues
The Earth’s gentle sigh
As it closes its eyes
For the brief oblivion of slumber
Pix to Words 