What comes, comes. An upstart park alongside a sidewalk witnesses up-shoots of the spring, an urbanscape where a cluster, itself, of daffodils in yellow constitutes awe.
In the shuffle to find a purpose, as the sun spills onto a clear pond, slapping us awake to confront or present or simply be,
that bright yoke flashes in the moment, the madly artificial gone.
No business of ours anyway how business goes when the body is going in its turn in tune with its life's own hum.
.jpg)
Like that,neat and tidy.
ReplyDeleteNot sure about yoke.... think deeper; may I humbly suggest,less vivid in the mind.
Me, Dude,
ReplyDeleteI'm not sure of the yoke, either. I'll rely on its momentary flash and spread along the pond's surface. But only for that moment.
Fool, T.
A spring poem for the ages, sir,
ReplyDeletecarved out of a moment lost to
most, a mid-stroll epiphany,
a poet's eyes reshaping the
mundane into the profane, into
the meta-spiritual; and the
yoke, boyo, tis there for all of
us, built lovingly by bosses,
family, ambition, depression,
anger, joy, and life itself;
this one, this time, right now.
I love when my eye can frame a shot of true earthy beauty without the mad artificial.
ReplyDeleteTrulyfool,
ReplyDeleteThis is a most delight piece of writing. Indeed, all to often we simply 'walk on by', without noticing our environs and the very seasonal changes.
The very beauty and colour all around...
Best Wishes, Eileen
Thank you very much for your very generous comments left at my poem, A Secret Silence.
Oh, yes! This one is truth!
ReplyDelete