Adjectives on the Typewriter
she moves her words like a prizefighter
Poetry. . . or my sad little attempt at it.
The mourning mist lies heavy, holding fast
To hardened earth and starkly stiffened blades
Of grass whose green no longer lives but fades
As all succumbs to winter's deadly grasp.
A whisp'ring rain of golden green, as light
Dispelled and toss'd on but a breath of wind. |
If along the way, you are growing weary
Mmmm, still contemplating the lovliness of walking alone in the rain, steaming coffee sending pulses of warmth through my hands, back to the solitude of the dorm. Nothing before me but an empty afternoon...oh, what shall I accomplish today? No appointments, no demands until 7:00 tonight (curse you, Mock Trial!!!). No job to hasten to. Just my mind, and the silence, and the gentle rain. I'm tempted to pick up a book, wonder of wonders. Haven't done that in about a month and a half. No, must resist...
Must.
Be.
DEDICATED.
Where are you going?
