Sunday, December 30, 2018

cusp

the story told of typewriters
click-clack talking back
that echo lingers in my head
as if some turnkey stood there
mending stories thread
words pressed out upon a white page
embedded promises to wildness made
raising gaze to break of day
i slip from sombre thoughts to pray
to sun and blue and unseen things
to bark and bone and
spring 

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