Like a globed fruit

palpable and mute, it is


juicy in my mind

spreading like sunlight spreading

like fermented wine

laughing the mountains

for spinning so slow when the

seasons come and go

charming rows of chance

dandelion hopes, and sparks

underlying thought*

*we are Electric.

so why are we tip-toed and

tumbling? instead of

laughing down the mountain

***First stanza borrows from Ars Poetica, by Archibald Macleish***