William Derge Poetry


Our path is lined
with wild chicory flowers.
Every morning we walk
through the wide and overgrown
field behind the house,
two old guys, each with a
limp and a bad eye,
trampling down the grass.

I don’t know why the sky blue flowers
run only along our path .
I’m sure if I asked,
a botanist could give me
a reasonable explanation.

I like to think that we,
the dog and I,
are the unwitting sowers
of the chicory seeds that
come to grow along the way,
like a river that had changed
places wit...


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