Every morning, she steeps the tea in clear boiled water, adds a scatter of spearmint leaves. Sometimes, she…
This morning, before birdshad chance to fluff wingsor trees to creak open ribsor groan open arms,the sky pouts at mewith his salt &…
everyday you riseinto words, your fingers ticklethe modest skin of meaning and weare a dogged fort, we are pinched…
It’s a scritch scratch scritchThat plagues the mind of the writer.Not just the writer, I think