Milking The Day Without A Stool

A poet has put his farm in rhyme, the most admirable kind of invisible fence, has fairly impounded it, milked it, skimmed it, and got all the cream. - Thoreau

in a travesty of reason

we drank smashed, pumpkin wine

near a tall field of skunkweed

staring at unrecorded meaninglessness

waiting for a change of season

off in the nearby distance, spent rain gurgled in a meandering stream

as black crows rattled a subsong

reminding us that here is now, now is here and when is dead

maybe someday, you'll know what i mean

as what rises to the top isn't always called cream

Author's Note

"Each humblest plant, or weed, as we call it, stands there to express some thought or mood of ours; and yet how long it stands in vain!... Beauty and true wealth are always thus cheap and despised." - Thoreau