the light of scent, the writing comes hard
by no-truth-login
while out walking...on a SUNday afternoon...
*the senses five have vacated the premises,
sun doesn’t rhyme with June or moon BUT,
two out of three say get thee to liberty child,
go outside, find the mottled color rabbit and
smell the light, its scent arrives with hints of
old lyrics, huckleberry friend, feet humming to
let the sunshine in with “visions of harmony and
understanding, sympathy and trust abounding”*
*so you see the writing comes hard, but the knees
promise with every step to return, recur, recapture
each pleasing flag and line, every odor, all the perfectly
nonsensical so that a walk is a poem, an exercise in
harmonious...that a drifter like me, vague remembers
someone singing, like him, that he is:*
“off to see the world,
there’s such a lot of world to see
we’re after the same rainbow's end,
waitin' 'round the bend” and a moon river...*