The Poet (Blood From a Turnip)

The tip of the felt, to capture a feeling in passing, is bound to a page in pursuit of its bind.   Here, the willows once plucked are given new leaves as their roots bear fruit in a silent soil, One that puts their toil to labor of a different kind. One where the mind which…

The Park

Northern pintails brushing blue, the crescendo of their wings, weaving windsong into words some say that, “Up jumped spring.”   The rising sun, through veils of dun, atop a pool of glass with flitting beams, does bend the streams to cast a liquid brass.   Children fashion cradles, and white whiskers out of string, and…