deepundergroundpoetry.com
Springtime in Rockhollow
There, by the sedum, in the fairy carpet and
distracted by the fingers of honeysuckle,
laid my passion, fathomless.
In the bruised ruins of grass strains, I absorbed
the hints of thyme, and time rolled passed me with the company of bugs and bees and butterflies,
and I found that all of my roots were forgiven.
There were bells wearing their purple crowns
and Bulbine Frutescens held up by bricks,
that later my tendered ideas would separate and replant behind tendrils of corkscrew grass.
In the lateness of the day, when the spray of water
is both new and old, I will potter the empty pots back to the shed
and climb the steps to a pot of tea. While the kettle's boiling I'll be on the wrong side of the glass.
distracted by the fingers of honeysuckle,
laid my passion, fathomless.
In the bruised ruins of grass strains, I absorbed
the hints of thyme, and time rolled passed me with the company of bugs and bees and butterflies,
and I found that all of my roots were forgiven.
There were bells wearing their purple crowns
and Bulbine Frutescens held up by bricks,
that later my tendered ideas would separate and replant behind tendrils of corkscrew grass.
In the lateness of the day, when the spray of water
is both new and old, I will potter the empty pots back to the shed
and climb the steps to a pot of tea. While the kettle's boiling I'll be on the wrong side of the glass.
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