exists a fascinating waste land, 

where winter and summer can coexist 

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where the shores lap up the waves, 

where goodnight sun Pavlovs the fish to leap 

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where the ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump 

of the tethered sailors keep time 

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while the tallgrass orchestra performs its symphony (cicada strings)     where the fireflies twirl and the cardinals trill and the forest’s soul is alive. 

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That is where the bittersweet echoes bite 

the wildflowers growing between fragmented 

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realities-- a rock and a hardplace. 

Seasons do not exist where the sunrays 

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kiss the moonbeams, where problems are not real 

(panic is not real). 

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Forest headlights silently soar through the dark 

wicked branches, hooting at the waste land-- 

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IMPENDING DOOM 

I will show you fear in a handful of dust. 

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The forest cannot catch its breath 

as smoke fills its lungs-- too green. 

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The desperate decrescendo follows the Devine 

natural law of order, chaos caught in pine.