Wine flows, cheese is sliced, Hams and pâté grace the board, Cards fan in warm hands. Records spin, voices collide— Sunday’s hearth, food, and hearts burn.
Evening sky reflects on the glass lake. The soldier of a tree carries on through the lonesome night. If we could only see the dreams of the fish, far from the frying pan.
This is a repost. Here's a link to my you tube channel where I read my poetry. Brand new video. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ucOOifTukWQ