Hold vines up, staring at me with

grittiness and exhaustion,

throwing words in vortex tapestries,

worlds inverted for the silver of

everydayness.  I just walk by

and give it a look which is anything

but kind, what kind

of passer am I, look at all the work

it’s been doing and I’m just walking,

to myself and the dirt and rocks and bees

talking.  So, I’m stopping, touching the

post, thanking it, and appreciating

all inches in slivers in its off-green

sheath.  I spend more time, on tilled row

take seat.

(7/21/16)