Ink Not Spilled

Reincarnate, they live as long as us.

An Exercise In Quatrains

Above the reaching leaves that grow beyond the basket’s edges, dance petals of lilac; of white; of crimson.

Ink-blue; windswept; late-night.

Speak harshly ‘gainst our walls.

Your wealth extends to awe all foreign lands! Your pious worship deeply pleases all our divine hosts, who bless our lives with Ma’at!

Clouds cling – fast.

‘Midst the dawn’s chill, she watched the night-time passing westward as she felt the tide of heat fall on her bare skin.

Wait for words…

Dusk deepens.

Ripples subside.

A leaf; a fountain; a cat; fruit.

Eddied pools of meaning.

The wind weaves.

Upon a time, once, long ago, in a place that I know not, a hooded child (in a crimson coat) through forest paths did trot…

In nature’s nightless, new-born form I met the mossy fern.