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Sunday, April 5, 2015

Oxylos Wilt

I aspire to Taliesin.
To Mrddyyn Wilt.
Once was I known as the Wild Man of Karen Switch.
Now am the Wild Man of Dry Prong.
A Creature of woods, and fields.
Of starry nights and
Blazing days.
Tom Bombadil,
Singing the World awake
From its dew-bound
A Friend of Trees.
Companion of Squirrels,
and Rabbits.
Birds Sing at my whistle.
Wildflowers are nice, but
it's the Grasses make Paradise.
My Good Friend Oak,
some half a Millennia old,
Waves like a Holy Fool.

Wisteria and Grapes,
Achillea Millifolium.
Coreopsis and Galliarda/
Thymus Vulgarum

I lurk in the Beebrush,
Haunt the Mesquite Tangle,
and the Earth feels my bare feet right back.
She Breathes the same Air as I,
The same Wind.
Moonrise, well before Sunset.
The Moon is my lover,
But I am involved with the Sun, as well.
The Others spy on both affairs,
Sometimes hidden behind their Blue-White Vastyness,
Other times shining in their Ink-Blue Firmament—
the Stars are always there.
Especially when we cannot see them,
save from the bottom of a Well.
I limp through the Poppies,
Stagger through the Grass.
Tumble into the brambles,
Fall on my ass.
I speak to the Trees, and the occasional Fox.
Freak Prosody giving
Hell to the Possum,
Under the Porch.

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