Essays, poems and Stories of an African-American

Wednesday, 14 August 2013

A poem

Ceramic in the woods

My walk is through the thick woods,
on the same trail trodden for ages,
A deer’s footprint left marks of its hoof,
either on a run or a leisurely sojourn.

A small pond hidden by overgrowth lies ahead,
Wild ducks splattering their feathers look out,
On the mark, to fly away they seem ready,
I turn at a safer distance; the alpha’s neck is stout.

A plate and fork are abandoned,
the ceramic china so out of place,
a silver fork lies forlornly cold,
there ahead lie strewn plastics and debris.

I didn’t put the deer here,
Nor the ceramic plate there,
I can live in harmony with nature,
as the  fork to kitchen.

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