Hear Ye. Hear Ye. Here we
propose to posit prose poetry,
forming forms of continuous connectivity
to communicate considerable
contemplative reflectivity.

Simply put, we pose this where
prose poetry is what you'll hear
when wondering where the time went
while reading such rhyme wonderments
as oft we've wrought, and revealed thusly;
each whit of wit written Hieronymously.

I Aubade

Would that I could stand, hand staid.
I heard the call, and I aubade
upon the dawn. As lawns lay white,

wind blows. It snowed throughout the night.
It snowed, yet here I sit purveying
lawns upon which I've been saying
dawn alights, and whiteness reigns,
melting fast on windowpanes.