Don't You Think

by Darryl Price

a war forever seems so sadly stupid, pretty petty on our perky part in the ongoing play,

a terrible loosed thing to have to always    

keep holding up our hostage hands to--

at least when being compared to say these sweet,

welcoming, waving branches comfortably surrounding


us here on the veranda, all brightly plunging over top of

every potential conversation we're

starting with their newly polished fingernails

snapping in the winds like gorgeous plastic pom-poms, eager


in their green clean uniforms to catch our

shortest attention span and praise for a set

together movement in this slightly bruised bowl of newly

fabricated air; I mean as if only moments ago made

into a song by me and my carnival mindset out of the rare moment and


its close proximity to the stones at

your simple feet-- placed in the softly pouting rain,the robust

embossed faces of an ancient looking tan

Italian climbing street-- wherever


you may twist or blow, awaiting the sun's

next color to paint you towards the next line

of a fine border's adventuresome viewpoint--one

of white foam-capped water, its floating necklace


of tied and tethered boats. Oh how I admire


it all! How it seems to fit perfectly around your

one long neck. No one else wears it as well, if

at all. But that's just one of your many

gifts sailing back on its own light to the giddy trees I suppose.