This is the view that has been so selected,
Not of the mountain or out to the sea, no…
This morning while seated in the rocking chair
The screen door frames in dark wood hues
An olive swath of rain flecked grass
And deeper still are bosomed trees cutting toward the cloud stacked-sky
Heaped in piles and drifts upon the sallow blue
That has failed so far to shake the morning haze.
And standing watch just nearby
Tall seed-headed grasses are arching low
As if to graze upon their own sweet richness,
While ladder-backed ferns shuffle and sway
Waiting impatiently for their turn,
Lingering damply in this milling crowd,
Waiting for the sun.