The day breaks beautifully in the piety of weary boulders
As I am summoned by the fields to sojourn in the ancient there
Amidst the meadows of purple flowers at the height of harvest time
Where all I have to store up for the winter is these words
I’ve labored so hard to rhyme.
More from Issue #2
Talk a New Language by Ken L. Jones
The light and color of the blossoming trees Is chrome and orange Pale stars of fruit in explosions of color And while a fragmentary nightingale sings Sounding over and over like an…
Old Orchard Slow Melt by Ken L. Jones
Early autumn is brass toned beneath the sunflowers And the fallen acorns and boysenberries announce It is coming on now and hard And here where the frogs jump like rocking horses in…
A Sequence of Rainbows by Ken L. Jones
The first spring day is blissful serenity Fresh water from the mountains Brought down unto me After a winter that has played an ape Until all was so very pale That I…
Trembling With a Strobe’s Tint by Ken L. Jones
Crows fly off an unrecognizable cliff The click, click, click of the red wine ballet Is like a romantic train ride to old movies And while the scriptures of the rain Come…