Early spring in these hills
could be easily mistaken
for late autumn
except for
birdsong
and the thin threaded
red hum rising
from every bare branch
Early spring in these hills
could be easily mistaken
for late autumn
except for
birdsong
and the thin threaded
red hum rising
from every bare branch
there's a poem in every day
aka: The Happy Bookers
Artist
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