In Summer’s Radiance

Aren’t words beacons, I asked,
giving meaning and direction,
like pulling on a mustard
top, in summer’s radiance,
with moistened breath so
there’s to be no mold?

You had agreed right off
the bat, hadn’t you, even
arranged the leafy surroundings,
so why, from time to time, do you
retract your snail’s head
as if fast asleep?

You’re headed toward
the gravestones, of course,
to the well-kept lawn,
the frangipani’s fragrance at
dusk, the murmuring wind.
No argument there.

Prompt:

May is a turning point, like the universe is doing a balletic performance and you’re truly astounded. Well it’s kind of like that for me. Which only goes to show, what?…grace and beauty, the leaps and bounds of a beating heart, the sanguineness that comes with the belief that everything’s going to be alright even though the universe is trippy as hell. So what is your point of view? Tell me now. In a poem of course.

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