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Feb 2017
Love these worn wrinkle's age
earned in life's forest fire sun
or leave it alone as that dead racoon
its highway flat back, glass eye staring
It's a Thursday stubble face resign
from a razor's kiss no longer matters
A foggy focused boiling whistle morning
thinking of a cup-a-joey for rattle's sake
all jitters and back o'-da-bus crush
Tell, this is not all or much chronicle
but a listen to sun baked cones
snap, crackle or popping verse
Nature's song as increasing ring count
untangling a dance of season's purse
paid Piper tweets in highest branches
straws up this inner sap and sighs

≈ cec
Written by
bulletcookie  122/M/Seattle
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