Thursday, October 27, 2005


The long Stick jabbing
straight through our natural preserve,
supported, steady Branch on one side.
Brushed up against balancing Stone,
broken Flower smiles, smiles Blood
Red and Leafy Yellow smiles. She buries Acorn
(our continual growth) in the distant
Muddy Blue Jeans, containing the moment.

Gentle Sun shining down on Stick,
she heats the inner, sticky wood,
strokes Flower and Stone and Leaves alike,
softens Mud, Branch stirs and Seed,
she pushes her shoot toward the sky.


Anonymous said...

I enjoyed the poem for the most part, however what is with the sticks? Feel free to not respond.

molly said...

i am the stick brad, thats whats with the sticks, its me

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