The Gazebo (or lack thereof)
By: Conor Van Riper
Running down the path
beneath despotic
canopy, tangled,
retiring for not;
witness divergent
branches submit to
placid grey.
Trot to examine the
elegant flora, flowing
gust commandeers leaf.
Stone-held moss
microcosmos.
Standing silently,
absorbed by the gaze,
point of convergence;
grey meets evergreen.
Evade duties that enslave,
lose the self to where
the gazebo once was.
Make no problem of presence,
which God we come from,
unwelcome is such a form,
hoist your burdens,
pick up your pace.