Gord

2022-04-23 12:43 pm

Atlas reaches, Earth teeters,
Who cares who stares beneath.
Apples, peaches, pears, kiwis:
Tree, what are seed to thee?
Tree, what are seeds to be?
Blue, what does it mean, to be Green?
Views beyond what one has seen.
Speed, a pace, to place them at the peak,
Then recede, what decides its meaning?
Perhaps at the roots, the soil is gleaning,
But at the root, a house teeters,
Tepid falling upon the cedar greens,
Of course, Of no fault to me, I feel.
Accepted outcomes of little dreams,
Confused with death, drift out to sea.