Doves
Mistake
Warm
February
Days
For
Spring
And
Cling
To
The
Power
Line
In
Pairs,
Taking
The
Sunny
Air.
Then,
In
A
Group,
Swoop
Down
To
The
Brown
Winter
Lawn,
Select
Material
For
Coming
Nests,
Then
They
Are
Gone.
The
Doves Mistake Warm February Days For Spring And Cling To The Power Line In Pairs, Taking The Sunny Air. Then, In A Group, Swoop Down To The Brown Winter Lawn, Select Material For Coming Nests, Then They Are Gone.
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Every
Morning, As The Sun Tilts West, I Paint The Mountain Crest In Shades Of Black, White, And Grey, But Today, I Saw The Overlay Of Tans And Browns That Surround The Bumps And Hollows That My Minds Brush Follows. The View Remains Entirely New, In An Ever Changing Breakfast Game, To Capture The Image I Strive To Claim. Some
Say We’re Only A Breath Away From A Parallel Reality, Headed A Different Way. Two Verging Worlds Exist, And Time Unfurls As The Insubstantial Sense Comes Of An Unseen Passing, Never Lasting, Just A Shadow Brief Second, When Another Universe Will Beckon. It’s
Not It, It’s A Picture Of It, All In The Play Of Light That Day, Or The Way The Artist Felt, Furtive Rover, Starving Hungry Or Hung Over, Raging Talent In Full Flower, In The Painter’s Finest Hour. Come, Look Closer, And See Ageless Beauty, Brought To Be. Patches
Of Moisture Way Up High, Make Half A Rainbow In The Sky. Down Here, It’s Desert Dry, The Town Dust Laden, Which Every Day Blows Away, Only To Settle Down Again, Dry As Gin, Dry As Cinnamon, Dry As Stone, Dry As Bone. Patches
Of Moisture Way Up High, Make Half A Rainbow In The Sky. Down Here, It’s Desert Dry, The Town Dust Laden, Which Every Day Blows Away, Only To Settle Down Again, Dry As Gin, Dry As Cinnamon, Dry As Stone, Dry As Bone. |
AuthorJeanette Collins Archives
March 2024
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