of still life souls, one
paused mid-conversation
on a summertime patio
and saw (or almost didn’t,
if not for the breeze
and an offhand chance
for the mind to wander)
more than ever before,
more than anyone else
took time to consider
the peripheral scene,
a remarkable moment
of cause to give notice
to that which in the
greencut grass was
never even there as far as
conversations go (so
far as he had ever known),
and in that pause,
for all that it was,
found poetry, perhaps,
or a minute, at least,
of something more
than prose...
No comments:
Post a Comment