Monk, Buddha, The Great Horned One.
Free. The Water meets sour’d trees
Now green again. Awake from the summer burn.
Walking the Earth The Great Mother made fresh.
New Apples ready to taste.
East wind harvest’d for thee.
“Too busy. I’ll get to it.”
How thoughtful the wind was to dump the fruit.
Fill the bags.
Don’t let them rot.
Cinnamon & Sugar, Nutmeg & Spice. Crusted to a crisp..
Taste on the tongue melts with vanilla creamed over with ice.
Forest. Young Buck & his Doe bride we meet.
“Mornin'” as we pass.
The Rat Race… Not for me.
Here, you can have it.