Poem #84

Sonnet II…

for Glen Miller Park

See the crooked, silvan creek
hiding, craning the neck,
out of the corners, run or sneak,
nurse the clapping water
off the pebble–the sound trickles.
I only know a familiar tone, that tender,
in my heart’s soft syllables.
Any step shifts the leaf-filled valley.
Soon on the opposite summit,
drawn down the bark, dull, dense, diverse
and desiduous hues of forest grey,
two share a secret shelter.

Carving out chips and shaving out splinters
they whisper, “Our initials…” into the hard lumber.

12 August 2015

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