nothing rhymes in the countryside.
The grass is all akilter,
flowers defy arrangement,
stalks whip and bluster,
apples drop unbidden,
pears refuse to ripen,
weeds run amok,
metre is all akimbo
and rhythm all asunder.
But sometimes after days of rain and thunder
when everything’s been jostled clean,
the trees all seem to sing in perfect verse
words that fall like leaves, blossom, fruit
all in surprising, wondrous order.
Copyright Janet Harper 2021