Poetry Here (Mostly)


pexels-photo-227691

He drove while I directed

my phone to remember

the contrast of winter summits

against the flourish of mild-weather

fields, lavishly green as Irish

scenes portrayed in technicolor,

or waiting room magazines.

 

I kept shooting as we passed

signs of spring, which wet winters

sometimes bring to meadows

and hills that summer fire

fries, but now in this season,

sunny-side yellow profusely

blooms California-wild poppies.

 

Before the Sonora Desert,

and busy city oasis,

he impulsively pulled over

nearby a quaint, woolly scene,

for photographs, however,

the flock boldly baahed at us

and made me feel quite sheepish.

 

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