SCOTT TO GLADE PRUNE TO GRASS WEEP THE WAND, SAID TREE
amongst earnest grasses and low-growing herbs often I dream of you dear forager
for in the moss and fungi bearing harvestable fruit invisible to those
who tramp with merry strides
tiny lavender wax flowers that smell of sod and pine will lay and keep
collected by delicate hands and arranged dearly
arrested in rapture
prissy oak
put an end to this magic forestry
it was in the many emerald coves we gathered gems when spring was ripe
I want more, I wish more
from these doldrum winds
fuss over me gently
whisper please whisper
tease out these lavish buttons
spectrums of green like mantis in the wood by a stream
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