 Cows Don't Low In Suburbia By Poet EAF I know, I listen for the words; Cows don't low in suburbia Spanish moss ornaments hang in leafy caves Celebrating unknown holidays And words. Words live in the cardinal's splayed crest, Erect, firey, chinese-red. Beneath rotting wood, inside, inside thriving sow bug colonies, Words hide pungent and sticky Alongside fat larvae. There is no threshing, No apple picking, No snow-topped stone fence Here. Spiny, poison-tipped, reclinadas Thrive Where lilies-of-the-valley crack, If they exist at all. Sweat-on-the-brow humidity Bathes sleping seeds in nutrients Stewed from their dead relatives, And pink hoyas leaking pungent nectar Wind suductively o'er The sun baked trellis. For the sight of a blushing hyacinth, I would die! A breath away from madness I would be If beneath my feet Maple leaves reposed spend and brown, I would pay a ransom to see Mardi-Gras bittersweet Growing wild and disobbedient among tolerant elms But, these are words. The yoke, bolted tight, binds the eyes Cows don't low in suburbia. Back to Unlimited Fantasy |