so minute
is each sway of each blade
of grass,
and yet still so timeless,
despite the hours wasted watching.

& who could forget

a rest
to be had in every shady spot,
serial crimes in the heat of passion,
behind bars of bark and branch,
a prison only to those outside.

& who could forget

to call to mind
and leave a voicemail
to recall over and over
like a tin can telephone
to the past