not kingly oak


Not kingly oak, nor prescient almond...
just some pale cottonwood.
Moon milky-green, for good
measure.  Shedding vagabond

fluffballs – like poetry, or
cotton boles – bales
for Memphis, N’Orleans...
spry limbs bent into hangin’ tree.

I go into jags & eddies, dried
pemmican.  Downstream
from vinegar dream-
sponge (where the Bre’r-man died).

If the Word were truly a fluffball of light
I would be acorn coracle
green mote on miracle
worker spinal curvature (bent wight).

It gleams through red Pipestone
peacepipe – an emerald
happiness, turned gold
as sunshine.  Welcome, Everyone!

Translucent presence of a place
for you, before all places
cling to timespaces...
a nest for omnipresent Falcon-Ace.

Benevolent breeze, that moves these leaves
to waver into swing-time
antimatter – chime
morning with Hope (sings in the sheaves).


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