Thursday, May 03, 2012

Shoulder Season



No longer spring and not yet summer,

Garden sowed, not yet plundered.

A woven ring in humble splendor

waits to rest upon a finger.

Wheels somewhere rest unridden,

Juancho waits and watches.

No longer spring and not yet summer,

All of us for something wonder.

Will it, won't it, has it ever

thought or fallen, carried over

been forgotten, lost, remembered?

Next shoulder season comes September.

Juancho




7 comments:

BIGWORM said...

Nice!

Buzz said...

I'll second that!

Human Wrecking Ball said...

You slay me good knight!

lopo said...

I, too, am speechless. You're working your butt off but still come up with poetry?

Juancho said...

Poetry is more efficient when time is short.

lopo said...

Ah, yes. That it does. It says so much with so few words.

Velosopher said...

You go! The Bike Chain Basho.