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)