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Hope arose from marsh paths
egret-eyed and scraggly —
stilt runs.
Whistle stops, parcel drops,
destination bugged.
Prime that ordinary ooze, American
coot. Oh, see? Can you say?
I try evolution, airy terns in
revolving dour mood indigo
waiting until
some marbled God-wit kites
my cin-
namon(g) teal skies.
What a pickleweed be in
were it not for the
promise of the
pearly everlasting!
more from the author
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- Oct 1, 2020
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Shively in July
- Jul 16, 2020
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Hybernacula
- Jan 23, 2020
- More »
