Follow the trail through

The head high mountain laurel

To the still waters 

Of a secret pond

The grass upon its banks

Waves back and forth 

In the cool breeze

A cloud spotted

Clear blue sky

Is mirrored on the surface

And you wish getting up,

Brushing off the seat of your pants

And leaving

Weren’t an option.

© Erik Hansen 2015


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Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, Poetry, Writing

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