A breeze whispers through the
Trees. I think I’d like to
Fly away. Surely tree-top
Conversations are much more
Pleasant than anything to be
Had in a fancy restaurant
Full of towel-armed waiters?
Ripples lap at the shore line, stealing
Pebbles. I think I’d rather grow
Gills and dive, deep down to a
Place where words don’t
Exist so we’d just shake fins and smile.
poetic bloomings- prompt #20
