Beveled Edges and Mitered Corners
The words have dried up,
brittle as pine straw, scorched by summer sun,
fragile as fleeting ashes of burning leaves.
They bud, but this drought leaves them
hanging on vines like dried string beans.
They rattle in the wind, empty and noisy,
dry and hard from lack of inspiration,
dried seeds in summer gourds of poetry.
Mary Elizabeth Lee relies on her experiences traveling country roads in North and South L...
The words have dried up,
brittle as pine straw, scorched by summer sun,
fragile as fleeting ashes of burning leaves.
They bud, but this drought leaves them
hanging on vines like dried string beans.
They rattle in the wind, empty and noisy,
dry and hard from lack of inspiration,
dried seeds in summer gourds of poetry.
Mary Elizabeth Lee relies on her experiences traveling country roads in North and South L...
