Wednesday, April 29, 2015

CHORUS

With each passing morning—
more and more 
kelly green 

trumpets 
of leaves—
bulge from little branches,

obstructing
to snatch
his destined path away

even 
as they 
instruct him—

The last thing the world needs 
is another 
poem 

like the one
you're 
envisioning!

The impossible—actually 
becomes
possible 

all the 
damn 
time;

it's just that it only—becomes
actual

every—
once in a while.

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