Spring
this year so
slowly she
arrives
as if she’s lost
her calendar
or her map
as if she’s lost
the memory of
where we live
Here. We live here.
Here is where you
are meant to bloom
again
Spring
this year so
slowly she
arrives
as if she’s lost
her calendar
or her map
as if she’s lost
the memory of
where we live
Here. We live here.
Here is where you
are meant to bloom
again
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