Poem: Glade

 

Glade

 

perched near moss,

lazy the play,

spruce in the round,

airs of rain-moistened leaves,

glisteny to touch. 

 

floating, it feels,

as if aloft in a drape,

vines on a cloud,

frond-tones of fiddle fern

and cobweb-drizzle.

 

so sparse, the glimpses

of bright peekaboo azure.

no clock save a coin cap’s breath.

beetles under brims

amble in siesta.

 

no slate of road, no marketplace,

or finance to consume.

 

lords of lichen instead,

those laurelled heralds,

whorled of beard,

brave on their knothole thrones

and tilting

 

toward supple boughs,

smooth as a bassoon, which hums

faint of pianissimo a breeze-fed fugue,

the whole of the forest

whispery with music.

 

 

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10/3/25  .... still alive in '25 

5/3 ... changed a preposition