Here in the furrows
edging the road, full-
throated guardians croak.
I wish I could slip
into their speckled skins.
When clay is soft
with imprints of the lost
time feels almost forgiving.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Here in the furrows
edging the road, full-
throated guardians croak.
I wish I could slip
into their speckled skins.
When clay is soft
with imprints of the lost
time feels almost forgiving.