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.

movement

touch, shape, size

sensation.

Breath

air, weight, flow

dance, perhaps

its all a dance. Beauty

some capture it in song, spoken language,

paint. Beauty

not solemn, nature

not stringent or with-holding, not bitter

nor shallow nor fleeting. Beauty

substance,

joyful, playful, wise,

wild.

Ironic.

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