Tiny one left behind by children
who no longer believe in umbrellas
hangs by the door
eager as a puppy
ready to throw itself
at a chance to open.
Bigger one leans in the corner
lazy as an old but faithful dog
opens creakily, slowly
rousing itself from dreams
of other storms, long ago.
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 Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014
Living in the moment
where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry
