A gift of snow melt—
under the Oregon Grape
a flash of green grass. But...
I think I'll wait for the wren's song.
"Hey you," he calls. "Come on out."
under the Oregon Grape
a flash of green grass. But...
I think I'll wait for the wren's song.
"Hey you," he calls. "Come on out."
Lorna, do you know about the New York Public Library's Twitter Poetry Contest? You are so good at writing short verse, you should try it. The deadline's March 10. For info go here:
ReplyDeletehttp://www.nypl.org/media-center/national-poetry-contest?hpfeature=1
I'm going to try to get something in, I think.