A PastoralA Poem by EthanThe lost are loved like silver ribboned presents under golden trees.Walk between the husks of corn, coarse and currently inanimate, And hear the whispering wind swirl, bringing to life Things otherwise stagnate, though very much attentive, While trees gently braid the hair of girls in white And children dance around their roots In circular uniformity to the wispy tunes of leaves. A wet fence does not an English pasture make, Though brown and sturdy it may be. I wonder if my star will fall from happier places And meet me once again. I’ve no one to talk to. He who knew the starry skies And darkness blank is gone now. I’ve still very much to say. The branches lofty make me sad With tears falling from infant eyes And cries of owls perched on high. And so, it goes for any child Who dares to walk these fields of green With no one watching at their side. © 2017 EthanAuthor's Note
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Added on July 18, 2017Last Updated on July 18, 2017 Tags: poetry, free verse, garden, field, pasture Author
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