Writing


I wrote a poem upon a map
And gave it to be scattered
To a springtime wind
That pinched my skin
And to these plains had wandered.

The rocks caught my poem long
In hands rough and firm
They turned it once and shuffled it twice
Then back to a map it went
It waited there beneath my stare
Again to be torn and rent.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s