A poem
in four minutes
fog thick
that veils the August sky with gray
but brightness
makes me feel
I’m in a spacious
and a lively bubble. . .

the freeway brushing sound. . .
the soaring sweep. . .
of low flown jet
more like a gentle roar
than a mean and threatening rumble

Complaints in mind I’ve got,
but somehow,
I see, too,
that here I have
in this moment
both a half full
and half emply pot.

And I will give it
my very best
of love and care
in action,
with judicious punctuation
of the intermittent, wise,
and clarifying

This entry was posted in Medium Length Poems, Poetry, Seasons, Summer and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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