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.
