I bend
beneath your feet

you stand
above me

I bristle

you scuff
as though your shoes
are made
for something better

I am a forest whorl
do you see the paths between

I am the world
all to myself
a passing step

a step into
out of
my doorway

breathe deeply
I release my dust

breathe again
for I have more

what has been your gift
to me
in drifts
and spores

© Frank Prem, 2017

August 2017 Poem #11: the jony’s march

One thought on “bristle

  1. Pingback: Texture: Grass | What's (in) the picture?

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