Sitting With My Stand
from 
JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
The stand of pines,
my stand,
I so very carefully plotted,
exactly 20 feet inbetween each.
When I drive alongside,
from first to last,
the sun will flicker between trunk and branch,
in a perfect rythm,
like a soldier's drum roll.
My pines will grow to take a stand,
against all outside forces and fears,
that passerbys on the highway,
bring all the way to the edge of the shoulder.
At night I will be seated,
front steps,
staring out at my pines,
watching headlights flicker,
between each trunk and branch,
in perfect rythm.
High speeds yield the quickest of tempos,
but never exceeding my ability to follow,
from first to last,
with a steady turn of my head,
waiting for the next car traveling in the opposite direction,
to return my gaze to where it drives right past my pines,
and I will write right off the page,
to where I find the most worth reading.
Where I hear drum rolls,
marching my eyes from first to last,
keeping tempo returning last to first.
By mere consequence of highway congestion,
detours and rush hours,
I will only need to sit for a number of minutes in waiting for,
early autumn darkness,
to observe all as unmistakable art,
that I'll mistake for something I created,
sitting with my stand.
my stand,
I so very carefully plotted,
exactly 20 feet inbetween each.
When I drive alongside,
from first to last,
the sun will flicker between trunk and branch,
in a perfect rythm,
like a soldier's drum roll.
My pines will grow to take a stand,
against all outside forces and fears,
that passerbys on the highway,
bring all the way to the edge of the shoulder.
At night I will be seated,
front steps,
staring out at my pines,
watching headlights flicker,
between each trunk and branch,
in perfect rythm.
High speeds yield the quickest of tempos,
but never exceeding my ability to follow,
from first to last,
with a steady turn of my head,
waiting for the next car traveling in the opposite direction,
to return my gaze to where it drives right past my pines,
and I will write right off the page,
to where I find the most worth reading.
Where I hear drum rolls,
marching my eyes from first to last,
keeping tempo returning last to first.
By mere consequence of highway congestion,
detours and rush hours,
I will only need to sit for a number of minutes in waiting for,
early autumn darkness,
to observe all as unmistakable art,
that I'll mistake for something I created,
sitting with my stand.