She calls herself poet, crisp apple
keys calling. She’s falling into the
page, leaving pieces of herself to
crunch crunch crunch new paths.
Do the math; you’ll find she’s half
-way to winter, about to hibernate
her way into some wordless cocoon.
Don’t wake her too soon – she is still
……………………waiting on her wings.
Prompted by dVerse Pubtalk.
I love this! Especially the way the title falls into the opening. She calls herself poet-crisp-apple. My heart is swooning. 🙂
Waiting on her wings – made me smile!
The first stanza is superb!