by Christopher R. J. Worth

Summer garden, warm breeze
Still cool shadows, chest moist
with dew, lay foundering into
the unexplored forest of the mind.

Sounds from thicket
large brown hare

Thoughts to the neatly boxed garden,
And question of rabbit’s reality:
What if this box, this world, is all that will ever be known?

I would rather have been a bird,
Able to move through worlds
To fly by the whims of the wind…


The Gardner’s hands gently scoop the little gray bird.
And it is laid to rest inside the garden’s gate.


Leave a comment

Filed under Text

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s