When Fall Falls

.

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. 

 

 

 

 

 

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