The Morning Porch

Dave Bonta December 9, 2011 4

Clouds creased above the sun’s bleary eye. On the sage leaves, hair-thin frost crystals point in all directions—a disheveled pelt.

4 Comments

Winter Lyric | Via Negativa
13 years ago Permalink
Lyric on the Edge of Winter | Via Negativa
13 years ago Permalink
bob brueckL
13 years ago Permalink

If the wild eye of the sun goes blind,
will I still be able to tell a white lie?
1. Dave
  13 years ago Permalink
  
  Excellent question, Bob!

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