The thirtieth poem

And always that one tree
at the end of the paved path
through the forest
glows
tungsten bright
shallow-rooted dry on the median
the thin divide
between tarred roads and ditches full
drowning the thicker belts
and bottoms of boreal

And always that one deer
at the edge of the paved path
through the forest
glows
tapetum bright
thin-lipped shy at the treeline
the long stride
between dried grasses and gardens full
crowning the thicker stems
and sepals of suburbia

* * *

That's it. It's eleven-fifty-something pm and I'm still short a poem.

Can I possibly be content with only thirty poems when there are thirty one days in May?

Only time will tell.

A.