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The apple’s core has centered on its seeds.
Bees shop the tree’s drupe in spring. The adder’s stung his kiss of awakening and hung a hissing shingle swung with creeds. An amber honey trickles in the mead. The song each bird is chattering herons on stilts and chevrons its passing. I follow her path until I am freed. I am born from quaternity. Four directions turn the signpost of my soul and map the meter of my maternity. I’ve relinquished every goal and handed myself over to eternity raising my anchor to begin my troll. ~ Bob Elmendorf
2 Comments
Richard S Russell
8/9/2023 12:27:39 pm
Hi, Bob.
Richard S Russell
8/9/2023 01:42:14 pm
Bob, I think I understand the line now. Leave a Reply. |
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