This time of year I carry clippers when I walk the trails

Green explosions create havoc

With sprawling tendrils encroaching on crushed gravel paths

Branches shaking hands overhead

To make arched tunnels

That I trim judiciously to bikini line smoothness

I watch for outliers and beachhead seekers

Clipping as I walk through an eruption of spring growth

Liking the rough margins

Blurred edges

That dog this trail

Kept in check by clipped edits and marginal notations



David Trudel   ©  2013



Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s