In the noun’s rosy glow,
legs stretched out
in front of me, adjective
minnows kissing my toes
under the cool gaze
of a tribe of water-spiders,
I lean back into the warmth
of an adverb, the one
I’d been eyeing since
we arrived almost
a week ago. Bill Z. tells me
I shouldn’t run with such
a fast crowd, but I disagree.
How would he know
of the pillowy comfort
of the passive tense,
he who never dangled
with a participle in his life?
No, give me my sparkling
modifiers, my lazy verbs,
and I’ll leave the prickly
bits to him, standard-bearer
of brevity, killer of favorites,
unquestionable conqueror
of loquaciousness.
In honor of William K Zinsser
to whom I promise to revise and edit this poem
when (if?) the 1462 days end.
(c) 2017, by Hannah Six
Image: Pexels
