Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
devin jones
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.