Meditations
- mclaspires
- Apr 13, 2024
- 1 min read
There is a special sense of something––
Of bees bumbling in primrose promises
Above Earth and warm grassy curls
Where leaves unfurl and clap
To the sound of the wind.
There is a special sense of something––
Of birds (who sing always anyway)
And suckle on fermenting fruit; A honeyed repute
All rasp but no red
Beneath pink and puddled skin.
There is a special sense of something
Of bluejays who pucker and peck
In the sugary neck
Of their own sweet thievery.
As it happens,
Hollow bones do not make hollow hearts.
We drink abundantly,
With a special sense of something.
Even if it is still too soon for wine.
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