in a field
of bramble,
dried leaves,
and wood piles-
ground violets
twine their way

three pale daffodil
stretch their
angled arms.
soft creamy cups
bow down

in a silent

what was.
what is,
what may be

a story
re writing itself
without word.
i am witness

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s