Between school and tuition,
out after sunset -
the delicate pink
clouds staining
tree-trellis,
thorn-trail-tangle -
shelling pistachios,
fingernail-sch-nick,
piling the bone-smooth,
oval hollows
on wet, algaed table,
reading of Parisian
solidarity,
sipping rum-laced
tepid coffee,
into the grey gloom.
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoetryIvy-jacketed, December oaks on road-borders shock their stark gestures at us now, through sun and sleet, that January will yawn at and February, propping eyelids, will desperately ignore, longing for blossom; and making do with the least of anything...
