Myrtle Tom loves books.
Every day the clock Tells the story of your loss: Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.
By Myrtle Tom3 years ago in Poets
Summer holiday By the sea — a blue canvas Stretching throughout time.
Blue raspberry ice — Your lips stained even after A full day of sun.
A blue breeze makes the Tulips in the neighbors yard Flutter, flutter, red.
Who knows the blue hour — Just before the fire sun blooms — All stars and promise?
We didn’t see him, But in the morning, we saw Paw prints by the door.
Have you ever heard a snow-heavy mountain sigh or a black bough break?
Yellow aspen trees Waving in a black pine wood Announce the river
I wonder if the word ever wearies Of making meaning Or if the sentence Tires of parading across the page — Asking the same question,
