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No part of this poetry should be reproduced in any form without written consent from the author, Joe DiMino, who retains all rights: contact


"The Woods" by Joe DiMino

I watched a master artist
Paint a nature composition
Soon owning them—
His were all the elements:
He the lacy patterns;
The sturdy trunks
From the soil of him,
And low trailing vines
With yellow and pink bells
Their steady, picturesque rings
Blossoms of his Life-force;
By the power of his commitment
Through the power
That committed both he and I
My own Force began to tingle:
The pink and yellow and brown
And green capillaries of me
Swelling, full with intensity of the season—
The woods of me expanding…
I looked to the sky of me,
For here I reached also—
His painted, bright orange pumpkin
A rising sun of my being—

I wanted to thank him
As he cracklingly gathered his leaves,
Spring turning into fall
All in a captured moment—
But for an occasion so sacred as this
Even a hallelujah would
Seem darkly distracting
And coldly out of pure light….

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