Mrs. had only red to wear, but ran the broken shore, disconsolate, the village through, the rooted icicles as steady sentinels & barricades, & wreathes aglow the failed ribbons & tattered bows — disparate Polaris, how is this true — Oh, where are you?
Daily Archives: December 15, 2012
Originally posted on Words of Woolgathering:
O I’ll let These mornings at the shadows rim Come and go come and go As they waver through a wetted glow A bulbous sun planted low Growing tall and wide, in a vegetable light Unto my empire below Unseen to most These lost roads of summer is where…
ayaladn 