Firetower

Everything, under the sun,
is lag-bolt and pressure-treated lumber;
everything else is outside, beyond far.
It does not reach.
Here, only the movement of grasses.
Here trees, breathing, rustle and whisper
openly secret secrets
only to nut-hatch and thrush.

Space will not order itself,
nor let me mark or catch
even the fiercest green along the ridge
or, lower, shadows of clouds on clover.

———[|||]———

(An oldie,  revised for this week’s prompt ‘Verdant‘, at: One Single Impression)

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