Wild Oats

late afternoon in a dark brown November

apple boxes swirl on windy gusts of frosty air

rushing so fast and struggling to make another sorry transition

a sudden idea so sweet and real strikes my face and spine

bound by the limits of a dry old page I strangle to convey the experience

packing to leave again and run away from today’s Titanic

I realize I will just return to this very spot where the apple boxes live

belonging to this block of earth where so much life inhabits and grows

I know I am coming back here

where God speaks

where the well flows

where madness rages

where it makes sense

where snow falls

where grammar is corrected

Closing my eyes I still can see those boxes swirl and bounce

tornadoes of brooding notions followed by events so strange

it was a cold Monday when time stood still and spoke right to me

and winked like Jack-in-the-apple-box

a clown smiled and my soul went home and I went with him

 

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