Dell - poemSubmitted by The Pen on Tue, 09/24/2013 - 22:21
peeling trees crook in their teetering,
and clusters the white coneflower below
to shade the small dead...
the smell thick with cast and birth,
chanterelles raising burnt umber
to scattering blots of gamboge and goldenrod,
amongst effluent marks of poison weaving
magenta, orchid and brick:
dark glistening oils settled
on poignant, stippled shields pressing the sun...
Peace and Love always.