Lippity Hop nips his morning greens,
Ears tall and twitching at supple alert.
To Lippity, a leaf is fare of the gods of
Small creatures.
But Lip was littered boding that he, himself,
Is someone else’s leaf.
Not sure why. It’s confusing,
But there it is.
‘I, Lip, am someone’s leaf.’
Hence the living ears.
Hasn’t made him a cynic, though.
He remains impossibly placid.
Doubt, certainly,
But with benefit-of-the.
Only the back half of Lippity hops.
On a low leaf-hunt,
His forearms reach forth, first left and then right,
Then his rounded back end joins in a concerted
Heave and ho.
Lip’s ears don’t twitch the slightest
When Solomon strafes by, cutting the air.
Not friends, but fellow leaf and sap people.
His ears don’t configure at all
Toward Sir Charles of the Powerline
When Chuck and his shrew scrap
Over nut-gathering,
All-nighters with the guys – it’s the pressure.
Lip knows his fellows.
He does go brown-gray motionless,
At the juttering growl of a jake brake
On I-65.
Hits him in the solar plexus,
Because
Even he has eternity in his bones.
The Pen of a Ready Writer 