what a way when the wind wïnds waste of trees/leaves of ‘phalt to shield of haste on painted path ‘pooled and personal, the last bastion of freedom aside from field or forest or sky or sea or expanse/the last destiny we, the current, shall never see ’til day finds need of lighters’ offerings, those reasons left to static rather than ‘namic philosophies– who rules the wind? whose laws abide the sea? who’s serpent squanders serenity in sight of stability/the crutch of the complacent/humility’s worst nemesis, idleness/the hands let wander body in place of Curiosities, true finders of the Sciences
I enjoyed the transition from word to word in this poem.
Chris Staines word up.
Yo, Nan, what’s your e-mail?