Groundling Poem by Gary Witt
Groundling
The muscles in my back have atrophied,
From shoulder blades to ell-five;
If ever I had wings
There is no vestige left.
I am stranded here, walking,
My progress often illusory,
Though my desires recall once circling
High above a wind-swept quarry
Of chiseled, sliced, comforting right angles
Flooded with rain water
And reflecting the deepest blue,
Gently brushed with white.
G - this warrants at least three reads for the deeply personal meaning to resound as smackingly as it warrants; and every sensible reader will go for ten times at least. I LOVE this. In a soothing, pensive, slightly hurty sort of way. t x
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/24/2026 12:44:02 PM # rel_20260813T193622Z_3aad590
touch of melancholy and underpinnings of regret, dreams to be achieved fading. brief verses richly imbued. a sense of accepting a situation. fine work. -Tailor