Reposted, because today’s posts seem filled with lily pads, a treasure of my childhood.
I walked through a wood one late summer’s day,
Afternoon light dappled a forest glade;
Lily pad in green-black pond and on it lay
A frog whose languid croak appeared to say,
As he scratched white belly in sun’s warm ray,
I shall not move on this late summer’s day.
I stopped to ponder my neighbor in green,
Who, eyes near closed in dreamlike sheen,
Lay ankles crossed and head on arm a lean;
He snorted half asleep in his pastoral scene,
Then snapped half-hearted at black fly on wing;
I chuckled then and left my neighbor in green.
Away the wood, I walked upon the granite shore,
Pounding waves, like knuckles rapped upon a door;
A lobster boat, weatherworn in wind that tore,
And red-faced men, like fishermen of yore,
Whose raw, ripped flesh labored evermore,
To work the sea that swept the granite shore.
From windswept shore I…
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