From his hands a melody unfolds
\nThat flits like butterflies through hastening crowd
\nSeeking stillness on which to alight.<\/p>\n
Summer’s fire sags like an overripe peach
\nAnd bursting on October’s horizon, splatters
\nCool evening across the sky. <\/p>\n
I really ought to exercise
\nWith ample perspirations,
\nBut I’ll likely follow otherwise
\nMore laconic aspirations.<\/p>\n
In this new light, dancing low
\nbeneath the trees, we all still glow
\nas bright, but differently.<\/p>\n
Please, friend, consider me a missed chance:
\nI simply like you better at a distance.<\/p>\n
Consider, friends, the chickadee
\nWhich bears no golden filigree
\nNor any cogent pedigree
\nYet is a splendid sight to see:
\nContent is he in modest gray
\nTo call his tune amidst the fray
\nOf us poor fools, as if to say:
\nUnbrand yourself, and fly away. <\/p>\n
Poetic day? I wish it were.
\nNo fodder for pentameter
\nBut plodding gray. I’ve nothing to say \u2014
\nAs I expect you’ll now concur. <\/p>\n
The chicken is up the tree again,
\nAnd not, as she should be, in her pen.
\nRaccoons can climb! This hen (gee whiz)
\nIs not half as smart as she thinks she is. <\/p>\n
Another day drips unheard silence
\nFrom uncounted possible leaves
\nAnd puddles on the ground. <\/p>\n
We are the slick of oil atop the puddle,
\nShimmering rainbows from our pollution. <\/p>\n
And! Special bonus poem because that last one was such a downer!<\/em><\/p>\n Now we frost a birthday torte From his hands a melody unfolds That flits like butterflies through hastening crowd Seeking stillness on which to alight. Summer’s fire sags like an overripe peach And bursting on October’s horizon, splatters Cool evening across the sky.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true},"categories":[18],"tags":[82],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p8I1ci-Mt","_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.davidwalbert.com\/dw\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3005"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.davidwalbert.com\/dw\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.davidwalbert.com\/dw\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.davidwalbert.com\/dw\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.davidwalbert.com\/dw\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3005"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"http:\/\/www.davidwalbert.com\/dw\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3005\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.davidwalbert.com\/dw\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3005"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.davidwalbert.com\/dw\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3005"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.davidwalbert.com\/dw\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3005"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}Upon the occasion of Little Leopard’s birthday<\/h4>\n
\nFor one who wasn’t born, but sort
\nOf purchased. We’ll not speak of that.
\nWe’ll say only that she’s a cat
\nAnd a friend, if largely inanimate.
\nHave we got milk? There was a quart
\nLast time I looked. Then raise a glass
\nAnd toast this furry little lass
\nAnd then, for heaven’s sake,
\nLet’s eat our cake.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"