Grave

walt whitman,

the pothead,

and the treehugger

can always be seen

chasing leaves,

flowers, & free:

the same hue

as that intoxicant,

that mossy color

caught in a

painter’s eye.

soil will grow

stems in time

that will bear

her standard,

but fruits

which often betray

the young, newborn,

sprouting shade.

she’s found

in african mines,

on english moors,

in northern forests,

and pools stagnating:

revealing secret,

becoming algae hearts.

she’s never

been felt,

tasted, or touched,

but what heady,

nectar springs

she shows me.