a smell of cows stone walls in ruin scattered wood a contrary face— that sliding roof scrubbed by winter; unneeded, unheeded, difficult and drafty, as reality closes in refreshing the land, Teeny’s barn all but fallen, yet, holding to stubbornness in its determination for Wilson (Teeny) Luce
The First Pilgrim
Shadows that leave no visible mark wait as I ripple the air. I’m becoming the art finding its way. Hidden beneath March’s dead leaves; a phantasm of possibilities. My new feathery green nudges a promising landscape, there, on its way to something else.
©2021 Judy DeCroce
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