marches

bloc

I am afraid of desolate dark woods

Where we have no words

Poets without muse.

In thistle thicket budding

From the Wild Rose that Grows in Winter.

Outside my protected plot

Thriving in expert isolationist landscapes,

Hanging from bare honeysuckle branches.

Riotous and greedy

Star-lings, grackles,  blue Js,  Mock-ing birds,

Searching for sanctuary in my treeless bloc.

Now feeding on black oil.

and sunflower seeds

I want quiet here, away from word woods,

Without the noise of thesaurus, lexicon, and glossary

I want to drink at the first font

To quench thirst from frost forming at my temples

But I am at a loss for Words

img_2812

Photo credit to Brianna Sargent