I wanted to read fannish and channish poetry and--surprise--I could find none, so I got the idea into my head to write some, even though I don't write original poetry. I hate writing original poetry.
I am humiliated. Mock me; my arms are open. :)
But, in all seriousness, it let me express a scene in my head and it was easier and more fun than a drabble.
Low as Dirt
The low fog stilled above the ground
For there was no place to go after that for the ground was solid.
Pebbles and stone, jagged edges and dirt
And footprints made up the ground.
The man had long feet and black shoes which picked up the dirt
And the dirt was spread over a wider stretch of ground
Where there were more footprints and dark glistening stones
Where the ground turned from light to shadow
A nook--away from view
There the prints were long swipes in the dirt.
There two sets of feet had played and caused a scuffle.
They had disturbed the dirt and the pebbles and the stone.
And the ground would remember their shoes because it remembers all shoes.
The boy had dainty shoes for dainty feet
And his prints were not as deep
For the ground did not smash into itself with the weight of the nimble boy
Who made circles in the dirt with his shoe as he let discolored fingers toy with him
The ground does not remember fluids.
Only big men and little boys.
And the fog hid them and their lovemaking