Open To Interpretation
Follow Your Rhymes
Sometimes sense on the run chasing us all
Chatting furry tailed fat grey squirrels
Rollicking around around before Fall
Sends us underground from Winter's snow whirls.
It should come as no surprise that we are
What we are perched atop our bones and skulls.
Fishermen pull strange fish from the sea tar,
All the same to the pier posts' waiting gulls.
What to do to distinguish me from them
But to bring you flowers with their sweet scents
I gathered from meadows the picas hem
And bring down swift hawks to their burrowed tents.
I'll not make fun in the roil with you,
Or doubt the sense of is and isn't true.