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 The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 53 times
Written on 2021-10-17 at 06:29

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MetaPoetics The PoetBay support member heart!
This meta-poem is a delight to read. Nicely done!
2021-10-18

Texts




They Write Poems, Don't They?
by Uncle Meridian