twirling along in the rain
and voluptuously dressed
in a riot of greens,
takes prisoners who can’t help
swooning at its everywhere-ness,
the smell of it
loamy as wine made
with half dead leaves and new shoots,
the taste of it
a sharp radish peppered with chopped chives,
the sound of it,
birds obscenely, gloriously
celebrating mid-air sex
with music, no less.
The inmates marvel
at raindrops on skin
 so recently released
from winter,
and they gulp and gulp.

©Wabi Sabi 2013

For Poets United ‘Pantry’


16 thoughts on “Twirling

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