Posted in Poetry


She speaks the language of wind

only the children of sibyls can hear

in the susurrus of her rich sylvan hair

fluttering in the sweet soft twilight

with the scarlet hues of sunset

lingering in the west of the sun.


I write stuff of my interest that does not interest anyone in my blog. No grammarians, no copy editors, no marketers, no cynics are welcome.

2 thoughts on “Willow

  1. The alliteration and deeply pleasant language drew me in, and I adored the imagery, the painting that you gently crafted here. A genuine delight.

    Liked by 1 person

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