Am meisten gelesen ▸
Dave Bonta
they must love the milk
that makes them so bad-tasting
milkweed bugs
memorial bench
all the young trees
it shelters now
the fog still lingers
in a funnel spider’s web
deertongue grass
the “creep” in “creeper”
battened to a locust trunk
by a thousand tentacles
The winter air cold touches my skin
The road with no crowded people
The birds flying away
The red roses displayed
And when I touch my finger bleed
So I drop my blood in the water
I see the Christmas lights sparkle
The branches with snows on
My hair flaws when the wind breezes
I sit on a bench alone
I started to write my love poems
My silence...
Cecile walked
Everywhere, everyday.
Absorbed in her own world.
She walks.
As usual, Cecile was walking
On her way to school
She gazed at the swirling silvers and golds overhead.
She walks
Whistling to her own tune.
What was she thinking of?
As days passed
Holidays growing closer
Bakeries baking ginger treats
The festive scents filling the air
The lights glimmered
Twinkled