this is a poem, frame of a ranch, and idling sun constitutes purring over ridges of excited when alas looking thru stone, the peerage of ices has been erased. a commonal, struck from gloss, contained in the bending ways of portage, the heft of river on the landscape, spring in imagination and presented with a mind. a poem is stark for reasons of ice, then melting, then flourish and bloom, and still onward, rushing or not, with wiry sentences and bustling lines. the sound of such goes to miles and miles and the reef of blue sky that dazzles us at morning. oh the riverine beguiles us usefully, and we stick to love song, how much of this breeze will release the dandelion, and how much will install new flowers, and how much will beckon corn stalks? a bear is framed in this, rolling down a street, posturing by a river, entering breezy stores to see this and that, then later to absquatulate, cunning in the lanes of drama. poetry is a language, isn't it? we share italics when we speak.
poems, fireflies...