The Poem With a Story

Showering the towering tree surrounded by flowering springs,

encasing the dirt around into enchantingly perfect rings,

a shore full of moonlit rocks,

all in the shapes of tiny socks,

the boat in the middle of the flowing sheet,

fading in and out with the plan of the weather along with the heat,

sounding of a distant bell,

wondering if its words could speak how many stories its rings would tell.

Walking toward the grassy area covered with millions of brightly shaded colors,

animals roaming about without their chained collars,

reaching toward the apple tree,

a statue moving free,

the woman of the shadows dream,

proudly standing at her stream,

the crow perched on the branch in the corner,

oddly watching this woman as though to scorn her.

A largely darkened wire fence just behind this view,

a robin perched on this fence with one stripe of blue,

her nest on the edge,

being held with a small wedge,

toward a house, she looked,

stuck in her spot as she had this special spot booked,

an opening in the middle of the gate,

leading up the walkway that was far out of date,

crumbling with each step to take as though ashes waiting to shake,

in the middle of the pathway stood a mailbox with a large leaning rake.

To the right a pond of green colors shining as though the brightest light to hurt the eyes,

dimmer above was the different reds in the two mysterious skies,

porch steps chipped,

broken windows holding curtains that were ripped,

a floor full of holes covered with plastic square containers,

to each side of the square room were heavy looking metal strainers,

in front of a painting looking through its window box,

peering out from in front of a small chair was a fox.

A sound as though running water above,

out of the corner came a white dove,

the door opened to meet my shoulder with the shadows hand lunging out,

into the door, I went without one shout,

here I rest in this painting,

looking out and waiting.