And I, The Never Pure

Not the "driven snow"

but the grit heavy slop

tossed by the plowman

on the end of your driveway

 

a frigid berm

of last summer's mulch

and autumn's rain river

gutter sludge

 

that try as you may

will return with the next

fresh blanket to be shoveled

away before you drive

the slick glazed roads

◄ A Lone Tree Rages

The Rarest Gem ►

Comments

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Devon Brock

Wed 10th Jul 2019 21:32

Lol, thanks Rose! I debated with the spelling - had to go 'merican.

Thought there would too much fluff if I wrote pluffman.

D

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Rose Casserley

Wed 10th Jul 2019 13:11

you say tomata we say tomato, you say potata we say potato, you say plowman, we say ploughman

thinking......you may be right on the latter but what does it matter! 😛

I always get much more than the gist in every one of your poems.

as in pleasurable browsing eyefuls of triff stuff dude!



Rose 💋

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