Two Out Of Three

Poem By B.A. Phillips

There our senses touch.

In the fields of...
Fresh grass scented.
To glisten with dew,
By a dawning morning...
And appetizing awakening eyes.

There our senses touch.

With an open window nearby.
Where the 'is' and 'why' of life,
Breezes through fields God gives...
To make the experience of it,
Flagrant with inconsistent fragrance shifting.
From day to day.
As if to outdo each creation made.

There our senses touch.

In the fields of...
All there is to life.
And to know it can not be simply lived,
If not witnessed.

There our senses touch.
Outside of ourselves.
With none of it to be lived,
To sit on fences.

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