the white sails unfurled
in a fast flowing breeze
and can't help but think to myself
Wordsworth would have put it better
of course he didn't have to contend with
the metallic buzz of his neighbor's weedwhacker
I wonder what the solitude of sitting
high above Tintern Abbey must've been like
before diesel powered leaf blowers
outdoor power saws and riding lawn mowers
before the noise of type-written words
hurdling through space in every direction
before the neurotic itch to check Twitter
every thirty seconds was acquired
If only I could rip the fabric of time
like a well-worn pair of jeans
I'd climb through the soft tendrils of cotton
back to those Wexford county hills
where I could devolve into the silence
broken only by a jocund chorus of daffodils
