Lo, the shopping cart gleams on the uncut grass, ferocious in its splendor. The tin of discarded ketchup: a psalm to the morn, like the throaty red of the songbird.
What three stood here, talking of the depth of being, of life, of mortality, of the arduous journeys of the souls of men? And then, with casual jollity, tossed their butts to the earth, where they lie quiescent and blameless?
The rusted fence, so artfully askew, is corroded as much as is my property value, which decays amid the entropy of all things.
A front porch no place for a treadmill? Nay, nay! Strike such outdated assumptions from your credo, for treading manfully on a porch brings the freshening air and the songs of vehicular traffic. O, joy! O, brisk winds off Route 95!
Stop! I say, stop! Stop your petty judgments, for this is Art, and not to be trod upon by any narrow-minded philistine.
My husband conjured up a rainbow, and it delivers fresh hope to the north. We shall follow.
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