The cactus trail leads up the hill
Beside the path the deer prefer
And where, sometimes, a road runner
Or fox will abruptly appear.
From here, they look like green applause,
A string of hands poised for clapping,
Like fans lining up on the route
Of a stage of the Tour de France.
Here come deer now. The prickly pear
Are ready with their paddle palms.
Let the wind stir the juniper.
A mind can play at philosophe
And strain to move by metaphor,
But wordless is philosopher.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.