Perched on the Lawn,
Bowstaff strapped
all the time in the fleeting sun
to stretch and find god
between the blades of grass
scrunchy toes and shaky fingertips
sway, shake, scared, sacred, singularity,
only for the briefest of eternities,
If I make it to the portal
fearless and pure toward nirvana,
and if I fall, I know what I have to work on.
one each, plus the fun transition. 3 oms. Bowstaff. Good time