Shes my Huckleberry.


She’s My Huckleberry.
She Sonders, perfectly imperfect amongst life’s direction-less compass. Copper flickers amongst the crushed leaves, She finds North . In all its forms, dusk through dawn, Ribbon unfurling like poems tumble from her mouth and give rise to sea of gentle muted letters of adjectives, pronouns and verbs. A true Alphabet soup… Her truths surround her, cling to her pores like an invisible summer sweater -a buffer from perhaps the pirated and the volatile realities of the day. . Ember, – light on the brink. in all its possibilities and its sorrows, a projectile, and in its sobering truths, perhaps for the last time a blink. left for the dark and the cumbersome.

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