Phalanxes of plastic ducks: wizards, barbarians-- the occasional detective-- swirl in the giant conundrum. Plastic dolls (fashion dolls?), no judgement on brand or aisle or hair, especially now, hear the canard-verse via pathways laid down in heat, in formless transformations. They know the wars. They know the strategies. They know the tidal energies. Or so Mandy says, holding a damp doll by the hair, dripping on the carpet, sleepy as an oracle fresh from a hot spring [or a bath] prophesying plastic. It's been a week since The Sunday Muse. And I'm working on the Indie Summer Read/Writeathon (currently reading Rocket Science and enjoying the drama) and working on other projects...but I find that I'm missing my Sunday poetry. :) -- Chrissa
I enjoyed this poem so much. Love the rhythm of it, and the repetition - and the feeling of sleeves-rolled-up spring activities. I once had a little shed that was always in need of cleaning - and a gigantic garden.
ReplyDeleteI love the hopeful feeling this holds my friend!
ReplyDeletea little bit of Wonderland just enough fun
ReplyDeleteHappy Sunday Chrissa
much❤love
Oh, to have a garden with a little shed again. Simply delightful.
ReplyDeleteI always hate cleaning the garden shed - all those spiders! Your poem will inspire me to do it.
ReplyDelete"Once again in sequence." Yes, indeed. Order is restored, and so are we.
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