2014 #223

The woolly bear crawling across the purple porch
drew from your infectious, chaotic,
boulevards, this heart that’s become
incurably lovelorn.

The woolly bear’s route appeared as though
premeditation was as organic
an arm as its rows of toes
and not only was Woolly Bear’s pathway

direct as a Yankee, the miniature
coal-shovelers were going to town
too; maybe the wasp wasn’t

up to the task it was called in to do
for it went ignored until a spare
glance revealed a victim about to drown
in Coffee Lake, by which time
Woolly Bear had come to a precipice

and perhaps when the wasp was saved
thanks to soft-hearted sudden
intervention, Coffee Lake
tossed to the rose bush,
Woolly Bear chose to disappear


About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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