Posted in Photography, Poetry

I come

I come to write
along side your lines
perforated paper
torn along my spine
with a dull blade
and an empty inkwell.

The snow has melted now.
Yet I sit cozy
near the blazing fire
with a blanket wrapped around
the middle of my story
and dancing flames worth noticing.

I will leave you the ash.
To sweep
or print
or blow away
towards the blooming azalea
covered with bees.