"encloaking" poems
MY SPINE
a crooked tree and you the moss that covers it.
A blanket of comfort encloaking my mind and numbing time.
How is it that we admire trees yet they are not immune to our plague of advantage?
and neither are we to the sickness of adjustment,
slowly accustoming our eyes and minds until what one tree used to awe us with a forest could not excite.
SO YOU
are not only the moss but the avid rain.
Feeding my growth and cleansing my
rotten,
crooked
spine.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 9:36 PM UTC