upon the green, i find a tilt
save for the hellibore does wilt,
the slender brown mixed inbetween
the proud of place amidst the green.
the flexing mind in its repose
is beckoned softly in her prose;
the unsaid words but heard on ear
in time are spoken in voice clear.
the pawns are slowly moved ahead
as thoughts are wondered in one's bed.
listen! hear the green brown face
as oftentimes they leave no trace.
once on the lips, the wind does carry
those priceless threads it does marry;
however, on slim occasion,
one does hear without persuasion.
`T. Imaan Tretchicovmanicova