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Infinite Monkeys. Infinite Typewriters.
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More in something to work with more bits for laterin the time of cool evenings the sun dying through the pale green of new leaves cloistered in the grove and the branches arc to a sky washed gold dreams spiral up and on to float with the clouds billowing to the sea and a rush of wind stirs the canopy and conjures spring.  Alcuin of York - I find these floating poems quite common. There is little insight offered here, no surprises. By "floating", I mean run on imagery that sounds poetic in the sense of "graceful". Honestly, I would like to see you make the poem say something - give it some traction that truly engages the reader. I'm afraid I don't find that here. Perhaps it's just my own taste. Alcuin |
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