Where is that clump of earth
Where sanguine I’ll lay and
Write ‘neath a spruce and cloud
Of the promise I shirk and
Ink the refute to no longer shrink
But now water the life within me?
I THINK THESE THINGS
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I stay a child of Saturday for having no more ambition than that.I have come from where there are few neighbors to where they are aplenty and I yearn return to where I was before I got back here.
At times it is the penetrating introspection that knifes through barriers, lets flow free the thoughts and words behind them.
Each one with whom you’ve traveled owns a microcosm of your life story and though she goes her separate way, your story is still within her.
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INK STILL WET