June 26, 2009
Final Poem #1
A hunter in an open field,
dressed to kill in the noonday sun.
Cautiously looking for my prey,
I search quietly through the tall grass
until I spot my target in the distance,
the perfect size and in perfect position
motionless, as if asleep, on towering vines.
I reach for my weapon, but itís not there.
My bare hands must suffice.
Slowly I sneak up on the unsuspecting victim.
With stealth-like speed I grab its body and wrestle it from its roost.
Not putting up much of a fight, the wild prize succumbs to my grip.
With sweet satisfaction in a good dayís hunt
I wander back home with my new trophy,
a young, tender, ripe