The Braeburn thought, “Gone again, gone the work of summer; spread along the stream, fed to Plastic bags; succumbing to one eddy and another, rosy skins lifting like dervish skirts, leaving tender nurseries empty as flotsam drifting below clouds. The late afternoon whispered, we are children of nothing and Everything, two hands fanned wide - no point in worry; bliss doesn’t forget, our story is a sling to set space Dust swimming across the sun. The Eider down explored the good in getting caught up in Something; like a boy with a new book curled and snug among shelves of dust mites and Dewey Decimal codes, eating words from a page, growing fat on dragon lore. The north wind yearned to run steady, still Greedy for the next moment, shoving nimbus clouds so brilliance would turn the day supple as mare’s tail. Duty is like this, sometimes a thorny vine climbing to push its perfume skyward.
Kinetic Poetry - Subject to change without warning.