The Harmonies of Friction

The poem began after reading a poem by T.E. Hulme. It is titled Autumn. I stole a line and built my poem arund that line.

photo by S. Thomas Summers

Sleep

I walked abroad
and saw the tall grass
in verdant robes,

their feathered tops,
swaying like a Sunday choir.
The breeze provided its music

as did a throng of warblers
hidden within a canopy
of elm and spruce,

quiet chitters and chirrs,
but the grass was silent.
I perceived only their gentle dance,

the hamonies of friction,
of each green spine
brushing against

its brother, its sister.
Even my breath
clamored against the time.

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