2014 #326

you know it was a stone
my toe stubbed while searching for footing
while on the scale on the sediment
for the smell of stew on a stove
as in how could so cozy a chalet
lift a lip for breath where the world
traded flora for the barren,
well anyway, a flame stretched an arm,
clutched a throb, and the search receded
for it wasn’t a stone but amber


About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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