We meter them out in fire, scaled down
to last treble-clefted flick of
tail and trail of smoke.
The syllables sag and drag
-on winded sails, caught between
We store them in caves, and sand
-castles, vessels of wind
and wave. Salted. Sung. Saved.
It’s Quadrille Monday over at dVerse, and I’m hosting. Come play!