Sit down, watch the mice scurry in the field, The evening birds that squawk to raise the dead, And let's not talk, draw no conclusion from this. It’s late, rain clouds have gathered overhead And the noise seems deep and never ending. See neighbors hurry home, we wave to a good friend, And the weight of work and unread mail and All the other nonsense that still lends Itself to worry feels somehow scattered, Jumbled in an overhanging blur. Then, it’s hard to think if anything else came, Lost in a wash of common details that occur: A deer ran past.
After a few months I usually can't bear any of my old poetry, but im still quite pleased with this one. Flow and mood were really the main concern here.
Love this—each word tumbles onto the next.
How mundanity brings out a sense of wonder... there's something more to this for sure—a suitable title indeed.
Thank you very much.
After a few months I usually can't bear any of my old poetry, but im still quite pleased with this one. Flow and mood were really the main concern here.