I love a precipice.
The lemon tree lingers
at the edge of lumen yellow.
We still have green in our eyes
behind the brown. Would you
agree? I love conversation.
It's all precipice. Same reason
I like to ask questions inside
a poem and let the poem answer:
box of chocolates. I love a good
old fashioned American idiom.
Shares most of its letters with
another i word. My word,
will the days continue to
be this green? They say
by June no. How far does
the ground have to loom
for this edge to glimmer
with precisely light doom?
Roman Ryan 