This is my third poem this evening, so I've got just enough left for Enlow Fork. Just enough, maybe, for one more. We'll see. Back to schedules tomorrow after such a nice break. . .
Walk at Enlow Fork
It was more like jazz,
those frogs bumming like basses
in the pond
down at Enlow Fork.
The precise pointed
blossoms in their nun's white
couldn't hush the heady
promiscuity of the lilac
mouthing the creek
nor did the blue bells
ring primly--no, they
hung like breasts, and spring
only hid the fisherman,
cloaked toe to head,
who slipped down by the riverbank,
his line a glimmer of sunlight
in Dunkard Creek. When we turned
from skimming and plocking
our stones into the shallows,
he was gone, and the noise,
the staccato beat of dandelion heads--
it was all ours again,
and all the sunshine, too.
Monday, April 25, 2011
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