a snowballs hell

you cannot go there, like black and white (holsteins) in the pasture to the side of the house

you cannot go there

 

we are children there and the water in the brook stands up falling like a door

it is always late

 

the trees want something from us

as we play absorbing games in ferns, just smell them, time

 

trembling blue as the always-ness of sky, of

spring here again unfolding hand of leaves

 

will we die will we live forever in some other imagined place

 

will we find what it is we cannot help but love in ourselves

 

 

 

Reviews

[Penlady]

cannot return to that field of childhood...no, cannot go there.... always thought nature had it backwards....time and energy should be given the old...they know how to play correctly, enjoy!

[Sami Khalil]

Your writes are unique and very interesting...Bravo