Poem: Glade

 

Glade

 

perched near moss,

spruce in the round,

lazy the play,

airs of storm-moistened leaves,

glisteny to the touch. 

 

floating, it feels,

as if aloft in a drape

of vines on a cloud,

fronded tones of fern

and cobweb-drizzle.

 

so sparse, the glimpses

of bright peekaboo azure.

no clock save a coin cap’s breath.

beetles under brims

fiddle in siesta.

 

no slate of road, no marketplace

to consume.

 

lords of lichen instead,

those laurelled heralds,

whorled of beard

on their knothole thrones,

tilting

 

toward supple boughs,

smooth as a bassoon, which hum

faint of pianissimo their breeze-fed fugues,

the whole forest

whispery with music.

 

 

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5/3 ... changed a preposition