in the wee moon hours
under the ways of the sky
weaving with her pen
Tag: pen
The Last Vine
Your heartstrings knot
for what is left and gone.
In nature, you find peace,
yet the places disappear.
Your helpless hands write
a note to the ones so dear.
With only a bird to love you,
you ponder the tired clouds.
Your pen, who will we become
when the last vine dies?
C & K 