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ted-boughter-dornfeldPoems
I’m sitting above some soil, Is this my backyard? No, my neighborhood is Many miles from here. Scores of sounds Jump down At different decibels To my excited ears. A Mexican Sun bronzes arms, And the sky continues to stay clear. Am I grateful for the sky? I am grateful for the sky. Trees plus breeze Equals a faint whisper Amid muggy heat. I wish I could translate each leaf, For the forest keeps A language of her own. I would like to leave my mark on this earth - More lastingly than the Red River Maple tree, Who leaves only a passing shadow on the ground. And my favorite twisted Acacia talks about how long it's been around, but I’m not so naïve, So it's noise dies down. Just long enough To hear my thoughts Echo, and echo, And stop somewhere. Sweat beads drip down Onto a parched porch. Soon, the moisture is gone, And a taciturn timber terrace Smiles as if to say; “I am the Sahara. I am dry.” Shifting my gaze Back to nature, I center my senses, On these different woods, Which breathe without fences. A gray catbird picks away at the ground, Searching for some nourishment. An Inca Dove ***** by noisily, For stealth has never been his game. A cardinal flits across the landscape, Not staying long enough for me To fully appreciate his crimson splendor. A motor car rumbles by, But soon the forest’s natural Symphony drowns that sound. A strand of a spider’s web Drifts by, stealing my eyes, For moments. Signs of spring, of summer, of September, Live in this place. I wonder if My yard is blooming, too.
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Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 1:46 AM UTC
My Backyard
I’m sitting above some soil, Is this my backyard? No, my neighborhood is Many miles from here. Scores of sounds Jump down At different decibels To my excited ears. A Mexican Sun bronzes arms, And the sky continues to stay clear. Am I grateful for the sky? I am grateful for the sky. Trees plus breeze Equals a faint whisper Amid muggy heat. I wish I could translate each leaf, For the forest keeps A language of her own. I would like to leave my mark on this earth - More lastingly than the Red River Maple tree, Who leaves only a passing shadow on the ground. And my favorite twisted Acacia talks about how long it's been around, but I’m not so naïve, So it's noise dies down. Just long enough To hear my thoughts Echo, and echo, And stop somewhere. Sweat beads drip down Onto a parched porch. Soon, the moisture is gone, And a taciturn timber terrace Smiles as if to say; “I am the Sahara. I am dry.” Shifting my gaze Back to nature, I center my senses, On these different woods, Which breathe without fences. A gray catbird picks away at the ground, Searching for some nourishment. An Inca Dove ***** by noisily, For stealth has never been his game. A cardinal flits across the landscape, Not staying long enough for me To fully appreciate his crimson splendor. A motor car rumbles by, But soon the forest’s natural Symphony drowns that sound. A strand of a spider’s web Drifts by, stealing my eyes, For moments. Signs of spring, of summer, of September, Live in this place. I wonder if My yard is blooming, too.
ted-boughter-dornfeld
Written by
ted-boughter-dornfeld
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 1:46 AM UTC
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