Often times I wander,
To this island of grass,
Among the rabbits and trees,
To let the hours pass.
But, on occasion,
I catch time by the wings,
Place it in a jar,
Just to hear if it sings.
Tonight it's serenading me,
of grapes to the East,
I look that direction,
Hoping for a feast.
Vines -there are plenty,
But life there is not.
Loved long ago,
Then someone forgot.
Decay.
Rot.
Too much trash.
The next spot,
That I'll hide a cache.
Look into the picture,
Or even right through it,
Numbers will appear,
If you feel up to it.
.
.
.
.
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