Behind the house the meadow looms
that's also made of many rooms
where treading feet have trampled halls
and trees suggest surrounding walls
and flowers now expectant wombs
are splashing colours of their blooms
against the grass they rise beside
of greater reach as if to hide
from tiny hands that cannot know
that as bouquet they cease to grow
except as beauty briefly seen
amid arrangement where they lean
to beckon fate they might preserve
by oil and canvas they could serve.
Portly Bard: Old man. Ekphrastic fan.
Prefers to craft with sole intent
of verse becoming complement...
...and by such homage being lent...
ideally also compliment.
The Ekphrastic Review
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