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