Untitled #1 by Abe Kurp

I've been having a wee bit o' trouble getting the creative juices flowing lately, so here is a poem I wrote a few months back. There is much I could say about this poem -- I have already gone through much of that in my head -- but now I am resigned. So please allow me to simply say I like it, present the poem below, and metamorphicly pray for a change in mental climate. Ahem. Ta-da:

It is 12 o'clock noon in the countryside,

And nothing of worth has been done:
The cows are not milked,
The cheese is not hung,
– A weakling would call it a day –
But the ones newly risen
Know not of such prisons
While enjoying the singe of the Sun,
The burnings and turnings of the high-level'd Orb,
The trees and the grass of the One.