By: Kristin Peterson (1/4/22)

To a time before hand, in which kept was a man, who inevitably, regrettably, conjured in sin

His heretical pride was now often denied, so the rapture’s inside of his denigrate chin

In pride of his youth, he took it forsooth, that the marigolds perfume was redder than March

And so led the trumpets, for words became crumpets, that staled in three stacks histrionic chagrin

For first came in the Meadows, who came by the fellows, ‘pon clear night and day, He had nary a sin

And then came the Bards, music softly in charge, of vibrational sequences, schisms and things

‘Twas last came the Gambler, a nephew of Tambor, now beating the pulse of the New World within

The beat of the drum, now set to his thumb, with greenery pulsing and thriving within

The Gambler was stout, but not nearly a lout, a Greenery god from the forests within

In dew laid his nymph, who tore it off quick, embracing the Gambler, no consequence known

For each in the moment, no shame would start growing, no moss left to settle on Stillness within

Or just be it desire, euphoric inspired, a passionate melding of Nature and mind

So the dew became grass, and what next came to pass, the Meadows were spreading, both fertile and fast

The poppies were flush, they took in the rush, excitement in Unison, Creation and thrust

Propelling the start, of a natural part, and ole’ Tom Bombadil got his way yet again…

(LOTR reference for my friends who Tolk’…)