Sunlight rivers through the shimmering
Sycamore tree, pools on the ground,
Makes of shadow a living shoreline.
I vibrate there. The juggler’s balls are
Frightfully high in the rarified air. Eight
Sheriff’s deputies in four cars came, but
They did not arrest me, nor did I give them
My confession. I offer that to you. Clouds
Dry all my pools of light, but I am not
Desolate. I vibrate to your whisper.
You arrest me. The cloud-blocked sun
Seeks land elsewhere, and can have it.
Poem by Santi Tafarella, 2011
See this poem as a Wordle here.