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dave-hardinPoems
Sycamore Three syllables No less pleasing Rolling off The tongue, yet Possessing A soupcon Of economy more Being four Letters lighter Dense as devils food Lacking elbow room Between the last Two beats Ninety feet Bottom to top Eighty Odd years Young and leaning Against Our house Telltale Leg of a timid Giant trying To squeeze himself Into a moment Ragged leafy breathing Giving him away English Plane My tree guy Says sideways so We crane Our necks Squinting Up at undeniable Quiet dignity Where shabbiness Once prevailed Rule Britannia! shading All of our tomorrows.
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Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 8:12 AM UTC
Sycamore
Sycamore Three syllables No less pleasing Rolling off The tongue, yet Possessing A soupcon Of economy more Being four Letters lighter Dense as devils food Lacking elbow room Between the last Two beats Ninety feet Bottom to top Eighty Odd years Young and leaning Against Our house Telltale Leg of a timid Giant trying To squeeze himself Into a moment Ragged leafy breathing Giving him away English Plane My tree guy Says sideways so We crane Our necks Squinting Up at undeniable Quiet dignity Where shabbiness Once prevailed Rule Britannia! shading All of our tomorrows.
dave-hardin
Written by
dave-hardin
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 8:12 AM UTC
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