La glace a fondu

On the green, soft grass

in the shade, under an oak

blue sky, pictorial clouds

I sit resplendently inactive

in body and mind

Could anything be

more beautifully pointless

Even the rapids in the river

have greater meaning in their roar

From crib to coffin

and the existence in between

I’ve seen too much of life

and yet I haven’t seen enough

Seagulls drop criticisms

on the pages of my poetry

Biodegradable white-out

editing my words

A safe distance away

a family picnics

“Mamam” cries the small child

“La glace a fondu”

I turn and thank the child

for the name of this poem

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