Tuesday, April 4, 2017



The flower is withered.
Dry and brittle, its color gone.
Most that bloomed when
it did have let go.
This one sits and
watches the green
sprout around it.
It doesn't fear the fall
but won't hasten it either.
Not while it still enjoys the view.

Is your National Poetry Month off to a good start? What are you writing? Who are you reading?


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