All that remains: in afterlife as 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. 20k views |
Noting… It’s a new season with new members who’ll change like the leaves Fully mature While I hang near the end of her long arm Nearer to the shade than sun They’ll surpass me within a year or two In recognition That it’s taken great time, all the photosyntheses, All the energy suckled From the near brittle end That for brief years surged, Now bypasses For the new succulents, Clustered and cloistered to her giving spaces Rising up where I Near the the street, resistant To sag Or droop In full view of their twirl The few that gather and swirl eddy about In the great, playful chase. It’s good here, in quiet, Fully reflecting on a sunset of gases That cloud a glowing horizon. Or, I could just fall and wait on the invisible forces (That could again) take me on the mysterious, amusement ride To (hopeful?) destiny, loosing free will To slot and sort myself in morning’s hydrant shimmer — Gleam, in a great void, then Warp like origami, brittle To a child’s tender touch. I forget the cyclical nature as bottom feeder who Dreamed himself a feather too good For the plumage that ejected him. Silly leaf. 9.22.23 Wind tousles tops so much, hard to visualize each, or if the same, as breezes make them whistle in those protracted shoots shapeshifting as time on bark…or something… Jeff Winger: (paraphrasingly) Here. I wrote this. I kinda nailed it. You can use it, or whatever. Modesty deflects the narcissism as platitude for recognition, when it shouldn’t have to be that hard to be acknowledged before sudden, maddening epiphany before potential mental upheaval. Go loose? There are greater forces at play that refuse to reveal themself. Aaannnyyywaaayy, better get the rake ready. No bigs, Lates. |