It's yet another MajorSeventh. Hop on the big shoulders and look ... Lastest poems are always posted last in my collections.
Winter. So, expect sparse gardens, late autumn and wintry countryside, wry philosophy and humour, tenderness towards litt...
Up from the quiet expanse of seeming-luminescent, emerald fur on thin, purple seta (nothing more than stiff line, stalks impossibly supporting) spore capsules hang, wet-look, lime-green cylinders.
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Mistake them for unopened flowers, as virid over their moss base now as snowdrops, heads bowed over freckled snow, or, later, bluebells clustered deeply under boles evoke the swift pangs of our tenderness,
here, so as I peer, stoop, kneel to catch the macro snaps, wonder again what the seta (stalks) are made of, so stiff upright, thin as a few, twisted spider-silks.
These zygote capsules bred on gamete plant - "Such oddities abounding all around,"
I tell the trembling antenna of the broad-cased beetle crawling this way across my weathered table, triangle stamped on its back from which it seems an eruption gilded by sunlight -
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