I did not see a rushing tide to my epiphany.
Just a babbling brook.
A natural lodging place.
Where I skinned my heart…
skinned my knees.
Even then the wonderment of
‘who owns these woods…I think I will never know.’
A circle confined by pine.
Flashlights spinning a victor’s kiss…
and, true, it would never find.
A masquerade of cowboy and Indian by the poetry palace…
Barefoot, carefree and calloused.
Mystery grew where the wild things go.
Or, so the ghostly, ghastly, tale would be told.
a lazy women’s lackluster carving of wood.
A dated damsels attempt at,
would have, should have, still could.
All thoughtful handmade devices…designed up in the notch.
Gentle moments flashing back to my childhood playground.
Across from Mr. Frost.