Thursday, May 26, 2016

The Hen.

Pine trees unfurl
as the dawn approaches
moonlit dew in mourning.

Shadows fall across
the grass-
a hen takes a stroll
across the lawn.

Today is tomorrow;
tomorrow is yet forsakened,
the past is not broken.

Dew is broken.
Can we hear the wind laugh?
As it moves through
the under

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