by Thea Schiller
Of Mountain Laurel
The songs of pink and white,
Give little birds, a rush and thrush,
beyond the skunk cabbage, under brush,
And rotted logs, the wood chipped splintery
Of yesteryear transforms
A path of stillness.
The sky beckons, “Open, I can provide the light” she says.
Do not dally inside the winds of trouble which blew
The storm of brew under your brow.
You do not have to be frog, dolphin, or amphibian
To mammal up.
The milk can burst
to froth, upon the skimming tops of waters.
Adrenalin can rush
to adam’s apple to land inside your heart
Before you leave the residue of shine
Upon this earth.
© 2021 Thea Schiller All rights reserved.
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