Language
A poem, a bit of language,
yanks on my hand
impatiently as a child
eager to make me go see
something in the woods,
in the dense clot of pines
just beyond the backyard,
some bit of furry life
scampering, nervous clown,
some shining treasure,
coin or bottle-cap
or heaven-knows-what,
some handmade shrine,
the little one's own homage
to an elementary god.
Poetry by Uncle Meridian
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Written on 2021-10-17 at 06:29
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by Uncle Meridian Latest textsA Good Day IndeedMy 1970s New Haven Nocturne Communion brasileira |
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