Monday, March 23, 2020

The ethereal is magical

and looming.  Truly, aren't clouds as structurally solid as trees, hill or even a poppy patch?  Or our imagination?  Or the memory of the first soup we tasted?  Or the sound of the last poem written?

1 comment:

  1. She waits by the courtyard gate
    to let him in--
    he and his companions are late