Poem #75

Unfurling, a spectral carpet

Or volcano,

Generously stained in butter-smears

And lavender-blueberry

Burgeoning like a seed

Or two,

Their ascent crooked

And multifingered,

Their rich ripe fruit encased within

A volley of needles,

Which send the picker,

Finger lipped, in quest

Of a Doc Leaf.

Ghosts guard the crown;

I saw them as a kid

But did not know them for ghosts

As I do now.

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