This poem is not an oak, ancient, sturdy, leafladen,
but a wiry willow, windbent, waiting
in the brisk of breeze to shred its leaves.
This poem is not a scent of sandalwood
weighted with the gait of an aging man
but the last whiff of rosehips, melting
in your morning tea.
This poem is a poem — a pebble tumbling
slowly in the stagnant stream
with newly fallen willow leaves.
This poem is the first and final days before the frost.
Today Jilly want’s us to write poem with repetition at dVerse. Join us..
October 25, 2018