Dave Bonta in epigrams and conundrums, forest February 14, 2017 23 Words

In my dream the creek says:

A young beech tree, still clinging to its leaves in winter, has half-fallen over at the top of a muddy bank.

I am not your pet. I can rise. In one afternoon I can take back everything I’ve laid down for a thousand years.

Enter your comment here...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

Email (required) (Address never made public)

Name (required)

Website

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. ( Log Out / Change )

You are commenting using your Google account. ( Log Out / Change )

You are commenting using your Twitter account. ( Log Out / Change )

You are commenting using your Facebook account. ( Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Woodrat photoblog