Leveler Poetry Journal
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Humid
The dandelion mouths dip
amidst fields, hazy and wet
while a few little birdies,
such small blimps, flit about
all the tender tendrils.
Sitting adirondack on a porch
and listening to the pink hour
when sprinklers buzz and bats
swoop and holler, for once
I wish it possible to travel
by telephone to you,
or whoever is still
there on the line.
So, I sing sometimes
the love call of vegetables
for eyes that emanate
the quiet light of tiny hospitals
where, maybe, we all feel
better.

Humid


The dandelion mouths dip

amidst fields, hazy and wet

while a few little birdies,

such small blimps, flit about

all the tender tendrils.


Sitting adirondack on a porch

and listening to the pink hour

when sprinklers buzz and bats


swoop and holler, for once

I wish it possible to travel

by telephone to you,

or whoever is still

there on the line.


So, I sing sometimes

the love call of vegetables

for eyes that emanate

the quiet light of tiny hospitals

where, maybe, we all feel

better.




Jarrod J. Annis