I can't believe there's no stutter
left on the right side of yesterday;
a friendly robin on a fencepost:
"who are you to say I'm thus".
What comes out of my fingers
so often comprehends inside
and leaves out the other,
as though a leaf could not fall
in a forest with no trees.
Ask not what words can do for your wintry daze,
what can you do for summer?
I quote when there is more to say,
but another uttered useless clutter.
Shorter longer weighed on wind,
did it bend and have you ginned,
up on fearful indoor plants
living life outside, askance.
Roman Ryan 