Paperless poet, snatching
rocks off the road and pocketing
them like heads-up pennies,
blooming roadkill up ahead,
plastic shimmering red and
blue bursts of beauty.
Unwalked land has
blades of grass as
vibrant as a child's synapse,
and only God can speak
such pristine silence
into evershines of sun.
I'm glad to be without the company of my echo.
It's best a fruit never sees
its flowers left behind.
