AND OF CLEVES
The most beautiful laurel leaf, barely in place, just
hanging. I stopped for a moment, surmising my place.
Nearby, the small fountain gurgled, its water spitting
forth a gentle stream. As if a sky was overhead, the
great blue beckoned. As it was, instead, a few girders
and a light-long pole had to suffice. Indoor fir trees, never
right and never at home. Why, so displaced, is ever this
world of plans and constructions? And, yes, people pretend
to be living here, well and at ease, in full.
The most beautiful laurel leaf, barely in place, just
hanging. I stopped for a moment, surmising my place.
Nearby, the small fountain gurgled, its water spitting
forth a gentle stream. As if a sky was overhead, the
great blue beckoned. As it was, instead, a few girders
and a light-long pole had to suffice. Indoor fir trees, never
right and never at home. Why, so displaced, is ever this
world of plans and constructions? And, yes, people pretend
to be living here, well and at ease, in full.
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