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:
Nice!
I'll second that!
You slay me good knight!
I, too, am speechless. You're working your butt off but still come up with poetry?
Poetry is more efficient when time is short.
Ah, yes. That it does. It says so much with so few words.
You go! The Bike Chain Basho.
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