Stretching wings workshop (final exercise)

with her belly full
she breathes the balm of pleasance
-the cicada sings

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lazy squirrels
or just tired, perhaps
Stomp! the acorn pops!
goodly oak in white or red
the wines of summer's thoughts?

where are the wild boar?
munchingcrunchinggrunting

canals idle through
spears that guarded
eggs that swim the shallows
all plump, like boiled wieners
on a stick, yet!
they too will pop
come frost. hahaa!

by next spring return the ducks
staring at clumps of used toilet paper
and learn proliferation
fornication, desperation
and Easter like their ilk
(not unlike poets, thinks I)

and perhaps escape the hidden guns
again

but now my thoughts are my own
as bugs tickle my eardrums
the thistle above shakes
the sky so bright it disappears

hold my hand in this meadow!
there is no harm here waiting
only breath and death
expanding, fading

in meadow grasses, she awaits
in trees that litter park estates
in hypnotizing garden clouds
of Black-eyed-Suzies everywhere

and do I weep because the earth
invades the place I hid my worth?
or do I squint so not to see
Spring's riding winds of jealousy?

perhaps the razz of summer's end
reminds me of my childhood friend
perhaps, the words I'd thought to send
which I have lost from now to then