The Larms made their cycle
back to me today,
silken parachutes announcing their arrival.
They nest in fallen branches
and produce mosaic art on trees.
You'll notice imagery
in the silk-wrapped sticks and stones
along the trunks.
I'd spend days during my childhood
making out faces and animals.
Sometimes during breezy days
I'd just lay in the grass
and watch their art come to life.
My mother started telling me
to "go watch Larms" when I was particularly moody.
They became my solace.
YOU ARE READING
Dumping Grounds
PoesiaSometimes when you are dumping your mind, poetry arises. In this anthology, travel with me to dreamy places or the dark corners of my mind, perhaps invoking the writer in you. I hope these pieces speak to you in some way as they have to me. Dumping...
