Oh let us touch not a desecration
or tolerate defilement
in the political, the social,

analytic or the blue.
Flowery. That’s what we want.
Flowers. Flowers

in the wild come
and send themselves so they snow
the ground through the thinnest

window crack and the hours
are rubbing festive
shores away in perpetual

practice for ceremonial
adios tipped from brim’s edge
to the flowers known to never

stick around. Scenes will shortly be all green.
Cicadas prepare for imminent
summer appearance. Cicadas,

crickets, katydids,
lightning bugs; blue haze
thickens the distant mountain cloak


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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