I wonder where
dandelions rest; if they are floating myths that perch and whisper in the breath that blew them. If they fall when winds dribble to a slow... get dusted with our broken worries and sink silt deep. If they feel anxious at the whim of their path or accept lover's tugs as true direction. If arriving isn't once. Each ray of ghost silk tickling infinitely into home.
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AuthorI like poems. Archives
July 2021
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