Gentle orange
resting on evening’s canopy.
From lush opaque green
like a chameleon it shifts
to the benign and melancholy
blank brown pages overlooking.
Never blinking, stoically, not a wince.
Water showers a bulwark
between the doughy field
and the grilling asphalt.
All the while your dreams
and cloud visions and games
of youth rest on the outlying
oaks that stand as the van guard.
Choruses of fouls chant,
“We live! We die! And yet
We live regardless!”
Quickly a raccoon darts
across the porch and into woods.
His tiny feet bearing proof
of a thousand tales
and scents of capricious wilderness.
The sweet sound of water
peaceably conquering stones.
Graham Cohen
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