Have you seen this poem?

She’s smallish and smiling
behind one shy hand
and she just might be
standing under a
wise old tree.

She’s three
white sheets to the wind
and tangled in breeze,
treasoned by the whispers
of a shadow’s scoff.

She’s wandered off,
I think,
perhaps
to drink the sky,
and I
am left behind
with just so much
{invisible}
ink.

..

In November, we poem.

 

 

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