avatarWilliam J Spirdione

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Abstract

ly eleven in all four, Seasons even the in-between of thine, In between, of these seasons we adore.</p><p id="3eef">Early late spring and grass is not as green, As it will be and the weeds are popping. The lawnmowers blade has yet to be seen, Metallic leafhoppers aren’t yet hopping.</p><p id="6868">These many times just looking at the ground, It’s in moments like these that I’ve been found.</p><div id="fc79" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/write-for-the-lark-525ab

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a334680"> <div> <div> <h2>Write for The Lark</h2> <div><h3>Submission guidelines for a short story and poetry publication</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*ozt7BP__wDxNylJnDZLoDg.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

Lying in the Grass

A sonnet

photo by William J Spirdione

A weed is just a plant in the wrong place, And in this lawn, if it can grow, it will. Lying in the grass, on elbows, rapt face, Always watching, even when feeling ill.

I remember being seven, and nine, And probably eleven in all four, Seasons even the in-between of thine, In between, of these seasons we adore.

Early late spring and grass is not as green, As it will be and the weeds are popping. The lawnmowers blade has yet to be seen, Metallic leafhoppers aren’t yet hopping.

These many times just looking at the ground, It’s in moments like these that I’ve been found.

Poetry
Sonnet
Seasons
Memories
Nature
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