This Far Pasturage
I would lose my aching identity
in the cool, forgotten forest of lost words,
and lie beneath their interchanging boughs;
while lapping phrases, like seeking herds,
nibble at the greenery of my mind.
The soothing, thick antiquity
of ripened and deep-mellowed beauty,
lingers here in this far pasturage,
and blooms into a cherished autumn, fruity
with the muttered musings
of long-dismembered afternoons.
