Knows,
I’m
Swamped
With
Prose
That
Grows
And
Flows
As
I Try
To
Manage
Which
Way
It
Goes,
As
If
I Could
Or
Even
Should,
Who
Knows?
Heaven
Knows, I’m Swamped With Prose That Grows And Flows As I Try To Manage Which Way It Goes, As If I Could Or Even Should, Who Knows?
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The
Memory Of A Place, Some Remembered Space, Hovers In Opaque Air, And If You Go Back, It Won’t Be There. Displaced, Built Over, Torn Down, The Whole Town Only A Frayed Edge Of Before Time Shut The Door, The Magic Long Gone, Like The Shadowed Shimmer Of A Lost Song. It’s
Difficult To Deal With Folks Who Don’t Get My Jokes. I Go Through My Song And Dance And Everybody Looks Askance. I Possess A Sheaf Of Catchy Rhymes I Can Recite In Record Time, But They All Fall On Ears Of Stone, And I’m Left Laughing On My Own. Autumn,
And The Grass Doesn’t Grow While Elm Leaves Fall Like Golden Snow. Now The Town Will Turn Adobe Brown As The Mountain Stands Vigil In A Crown Of Frost. Night Grows Long At The Cost Of Light, And We Wait, Summer Locked Behind A Wintry Gate, For That Mysterious Return Of Spring, And Every Lovely, Living Thing. Spirited sisters Bia and Letty Greenway, out in the snow to find Christmas holly, instead find a dead horse and a wounded man. They care for him, Bia charmed by his beauty and Letty eager to gain material for her ongoing novel. Soon, his horse and evidence of the event ever having happened disappear.
Baby,
Take That Scrap Of Lace From Your Face, You’re Standing In The Wrong Place. That Blaze You Built Beneath Your Feet Is Gaining Heat, So Better Make A Fast Retreat. It Won’t Do Any Good To Stay, Just Go, The Rascal Bridegroom Isn’t Going To Show. |
AuthorJeanette Collins Archives
March 2024
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