Late last night, the angel in the backyard
spread his wings and nearly spoke.
Today, all that’s left is an odd pattern
where the world is melting beneath my window,
as if the barn spent all evening practicing
snow angels on the ground.
Late last night, the angel in the backyard
spread his wings and nearly spoke.
Today, all that’s left is an odd pattern
where the world is melting beneath my window,
as if the barn spent all evening practicing
snow angels on the ground.
aka: The Happy Bookers
Artist
MOSTLY MONTREAL, MOST OF THE TIME
I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"
custom poems on vintage typewriters
One Poet's Writing Practice
A Poetry Practice
Living in the moment
where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry
