Here I sit in the park, across from the church, reading walt Whitman's "Leaves Of Grass," a copy 88 year old. How Ironic that such a celebrated author would contemplate poetically the oddity of someone writing his biography after he was dead. Whitman wrote what he saw, contemplated what he felt and what his eyes failed to see, he was a man of nature and solitude, how ironic.
touch, shape, size
air, weight, flow
its all a dance. Beauty
some capture it in song, spoken language,
not solemn, nature
not stringent or with-holding, not bitter
nor shallow nor fleeting. Beauty
joyful, playful, wise,
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