The breeze harvests and scatters.
Contours gather in the periphery,
Summaries and juxtapositions,
Entire colonies of angular limbs
Partitioning and prevaricating,
An insolent and imbecilic palate
Trellised but insurmountable
And I on the ground looking up.
My bent gaze perforates the splendor
Of a seldom populated dimension
These parsimonious shadows
That move without so much as a rattle,
The able-bodied dusk weeps
Secular and sanctimonious
My nose extends plainly
From my illogical face
And I just might be a scarecrow.
I love when the shadows are gathering and the sun is low but bright, it is the best time to talk a walk