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Throughout all of his life
he had moved words around.
Formulated rows of verse
into vivid sketches, that told
of silver sprinting streams
and mountains that cast
their bullying shadows
over the surfaces of cool lakes.
Fields of golden corn.
Sunlight that caught
and turned the dew
into specks of diamonds,
shone like a jeweller's window.
He believing the eye
needed to be directed by passion;
knowing that illuminating objects
intensified their visability.
From boy to man
he searched beneath
the bark of trees.
Tore apart the seasons
as
his stones became stonier...
his final line,
sitting like a small reward.
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What Happens When I Say 'Voluptuous'
