Eddied time, drifting
slowly through the glass
counts the moments, shifting
seconds towards our last.
Grains of sand fall,
each an inevitability,
none can forestall
our mortal liability.
A count in reverse
from full to empty.
What earned this curse;
thief of what was once aplenty.
One more short poem today, inspired by the view out the back window. Tomorrow we'll do some prose. The oaks grow bent, their wealth spread to the sky,
imperiously demanding the sun's daily blessing.
Alternatively cursing the clouds as they bathe,
waves of sky-borne gold painting their branches.
I have a habit of exploring ideas in prose by writing a few paragraphs at a time in the theme and shape of the idea. I call these 'sketches'.This one is from the brainstorming process for a longer piece I've been working on.W&H Sketch #2Haines floated weightlessly in a digital sea, waiting on W...
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