519 by Enny Oar


the flittering of
bumblebee wings
amidst the dandelions,
beckoning the mothers,
whose babies heads popped
to weep milky white
tears for the wind their children
will never know.
Shorn free of their emerald
fabric lashes
left to bake on pavement
for the blue jays, sparrows,
and garden hose.
Lifted by
the cool smell of wet gravel
on this,
the day the rusted spokes
carried me through the dust
and out into open sky,
bobbing amongst cotton
and tall green soldiers
all standing
in row
upon row
upon row.

About the Author

Enny Oar is a part time compass and full time canoe. He can be seen in your minds eye if you squint really hard while thinking about the void and date squares. He has worn jeans on several occasions.

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