Springer's profile

thick canopies, ferns, August's mundane crickets seem their sturdiest green tart red berries then watered down with black ripen. No face makes sour shapes. babies are quite used to hums of outboards bringing in seared fishermen Birds first to know life is returning to pockets in heavy backpacks. baby animals leave mother ones all alone humans don't know who's old. Dandelions see their spiderweb hats fall up and soar long shadows.

O, sing in me muse! let my thoughts graze the sky, grow wings and soar free o'er landscapes of the mind. Sing me into darkness or give light to my words; while I 'wait you in agony bring a cure for this curse. For swallowed by doubt the verse goes unpenned and these short-lived creations spill on without end. For deep in these fantasies dwell magics unspoken, dead rhymes on stone tongues of the myths not yet woken. The ancient ones hide here: myths, peoples, the lorn, those closest to heaven...