Mar 19, 2008

Careening Fronds.

We are soldiers, our battalions moving forward,
ever forward. We march through split heels,
chafed shouldertops, sprained ankles, compressed
knees, and, invariably, arthritic knuckles.

The public decries; looks on so disdainfully,
ever vigilant. We listen to their barbed cries,
knowing depression lurks instead in nests of air,
corners, and shriveled insects under bootsoles.

The most amazing things actually do affect us,
ever so slightly: groves of oranges with broken branches,
houses foraged with rotten wood, rain, broken vessels
on elderly hands, or voices floating through light brush.

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