 | | 15/10/2011 00:22
Sur le blog Amy Nelson
it was morning,
The shade from the oak tree bent our faces, limbs became shadows. I was a sprout, a seed to a dandle, when I first began dreaming. When winter hunted the kingdom, I was a writer.longing. pitted. dimpled. alone.As a blushing crawl, I learned to pout, and smack my lips on rotten wood. Clocks spit numbers, leaves circled, milk soured. Baby breath turned into dust between knuckles. When the saffron sun enveloped summer, I knew what I needed. Dust to be swept by the interlock of hands.of fingers. of sweat. my companion.I spent seedlings, cotton, firewood, and milky pen shapes. I spent numbers. Wandering past damsels, and pony eyed suitors. Some plucked mare's...
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