Rift

This entry is part 23 of 55 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Spring 2012

Unto every one that hath shall be given, says the sky:
and so the flowerbeds spread their skirts lined with mulch,
and the odor rose into the air, mold of wood mingled
with the fragrance of budding things. And the frost
that earlier rimmed the outlines of each blade
of grass: overtaken by rain, so many needles
running stitches into the earth.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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