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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

i actually do this.


The first was a whimsy,

A haiku

Left in the dew

Upon the great green hill,

And then later,

When winter left her spill,

I took to spiraling

Sonnets in the snow,

With a blackberry branch,

I found in fall’s remains.

And then it became

Quatrains left on rainy

 Barn window panes.

A hoof pick makes a fine tool

For etching epigrams on 

Water trough ice.

I save the couplets

For the mud if they are nice.

Husband complains

That I waste these words,

Letting them evaporate and blur with time,

But I give him a quiet and smug reply;

I’ll write whatever I want to the sky.

Submitted: October 30, 2020

© Copyright 2020 Cecille d. Brant. All rights reserved.

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