the wind is a hair brush,
combing the wheat of the meadow,
pulling out rays of sunlight hidden within
toes like rain drops sprinkling the roots
dancing to an executioner's cries,
"Whip poor Will! Whip poor Will!"
shriveled sassafras behind framed windows
forgotten remnats of yesterday's tea
insightful repercussion poured
in grandma's favorite mug
and the taste upon ruddy lips
sussurrations of the breeze,
in one bangled ear
and out the other.
face of a cloud floating,
my muse taking shape
framed by strawberry curls.
~~~




Thank you so much for the invite. I'll definately work harder.














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