Everyday is a rewrite, the opportunity to redraft the first verse. My purple high-tops strike the sidewalk as I converse in morse code.
Regrets?
Just a few thoughts can lead us astray.
Today I'm the poem walking upon a blank slate, re-painting the canvas within...
A Mediterranean heat warms my back.
Her laughter still echoes, another reminder of those sun-drenched days.
Mountain tops, snow covered...
A mountain-biker with the funky frame, the picnic bench, the poems.
Walking, wandering, contemplating the first draft.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 11:47 AM UTC
Everyday is a rewrite, the opportunity to redraft the first verse. My purple high-tops strike the sidewalk as I converse in morse code.
Regrets?
Just a few thoughts can lead us astray.
Today I'm the poem walking upon a blank slate, re-painting the canvas within...
A Mediterranean heat warms my back.
Her laughter still echoes, another reminder of those sun-drenched days.
Mountain tops, snow covered...
A mountain-biker with the funky frame, the picnic bench, the poems.
Walking, wandering, contemplating the first draft.
