Tag: poem form
-
A Golden Shovel for dVerse
Unimportant Strangers I was all eyes and hands back then, each moment rosy smiles or a quick descent into dusty tears. Five years old. Such is the way of small hands, little limbs, and as I chased the summer, graceful as butterflies I chased, as the dust rising underfoot, I saw the sky as a…
It's Still Life 