Scraps

those words
scribbled, jotted
scrawled across the
face of old envelopes
and dull
hearts

elements
spices sitting
poised to pounce
into a pot of poetry
or an essay or
an abstract

kinda makes
you think, wonder
where the meaning is
in the pot or in
the one who
stirs
Image 002

Deaf Earth’s Denial

…I remember, sweet fields of red clover, green stalks soft and new, tops dipped in crimson, just before being baked by the shimmery sun but after they’d stripped off their equinox frock…

Source: Deaf Earth’s Denial