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)