meditation on friday evening (alone)

Bare Hill Pond

what becomes of summer
when it is the air
we dread

anticipation
as the ripples
form ice

yesterday was common
now all sound releases
energy to gas

bend near, dear
scrape the fear
leave marks of roots tangled

your reaching fingers
on high tide
stir the memories

deep inside
glass houses and yellow rooms
gleaming windows scrubbed

the paper towels
and vinegar smells, tell
antiseptic days -ahead

——

so now this…

This pertains to WP as well. This post may be an emotional reaction to the world as a social construct. I no longer welcome this intrusion. I am back to writing… reading. Simply put… if you want a personal connection with me, i welcome you to reach out. If i hear nothing, i will take that as a goodbye.

Photography Poetry

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