Even rough Magic can flame amazement.
Blades of yellow grass lick at my stomach, as Birnam Wood looms large.
Things that love night love not such nights as these.
The Fool met Viola at a crosswalk, as the light turned emerald-green.
And it appeared to all the world that she was dead.
I stole you from Emily Dickinson.
In the patchwork grass / On the side of my yard / Fairies grow from the ground.
The storm was over, but its traces were far from gone.
I’ve scarcely lived yet, and I intend to do so.
And as lightning scarred the sky, and thunder sounded all around, and rain pelted the earth, something impossible happened.
© 2024 The Sunset Owl — Powered by WordPress
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
