A Sunday Off
Ambiance in the breeze.
A song; Whitmanian whistle.
If only I could whistle fluently,
to capture the songs within mid-April breeze.
I usurp the the wind chimes
with austere hand,
as if to channel the medium.
Sweat kisses my neck goodbye,
and Sol pierces ultra-violet shield.
My head no longer aches.
My lungs no longer breathe.
A gasp.
The pollen fulfills my needs.
© 2017 Josh Dale
Great piece! Thanks for sharing it with us! :)
Thank I appreciate it
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