#151

Brushes 13

carla m. wilson

A Tiny Love Poem

 

 He said it was like

Poppies

The red ache of them

Spread across by wind

En masse

Illuminated sunfields and

We could never hope

To own

Such purity

***

(from my April 3rd, 2012 Poem-A-Day archives)

 

This entry was published on 04.24.16 at 9:48 am. It’s filed under art, creative writing, journal entry, poetry, prose poetry, writing and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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