Blond from woke,
whiskers climbed last dry blooms,
delicate leaves, spring flames
like the roof.
three quarter the could,
the blond pale midnight
like whiskers of climbed
bed of moon.
We woke the spotted shriveling blooms.
She, the wind
held itself time
(some I of time).
Let the wind trace itself
…………….Trace itself through.
Still following Margo over to PoMoSco when time allows. Today‘s was fun.
My source text was the first page or so of the novel White Oleander, by Janet Fitch.
I used the original text mixer-upper suggested (The Text-Mixing Desk) for the first few paragraphs’ mix-up, then the one Margo likes, Language Is a Virus, for the second.
Note: we were allowed to delete words, but had to keep the rest in the order the text mixer presented them. (Punctuation is mine.)