Meadow

A green, fading somewhat, sometimes
to brown. Familiar brown
maybe sometime gray, with red in the mixing
that sprouts,
s p r e a d s - blossoms
into-
A sun shined, weary,
air worn oxygen weeping wonderful
green
Where come the the chilling kiss of the air to cool-
fluttering down, twirling, crying
of change and cold
to lay, shrivel,
d i e
Leaving but a heap of a mass of dead color
of exquisite beauty to sleep
to rest.
S p r e a d,
blossom,
Live.

Author's Note

An experiment of sorts, try to forgive the rough edges.

Reviews

[Chris]

We all are our "rough edges" - so nothing to forgive.

You might want to slowly re-read your poem... experiments need to be slowly tasted to appreciate the different flavors from our norm.

Chris