It is, simply put, A lazy man’s Writing style.
For being drained, he looked great. Almost like a mid-day siesta, or a work day snooze.
How many people worship the moon?
Head on his shoulder. I watch his fingers lightly trace the strings, nimbly finding the rhythm he has just heard.
And, oh, this year Our sand hills wore A mantle velveteen Soft And coolest shades Of golds and grays and greens With cedar necklaces Pockets, water blue, Tucked in between.
Wild March winds Lashing out They dip and sway Old Scotch pines More bare each day