A History of Quill


the window, a vast meridian she bows her forehead to there

where dreams, and also in mirrors, dreams, she’d seen 

 

                                    the ink in the bottle 

an old romantic gift, and the quill so bright,

its yestermoments like naked twigs on once fragrant snow

absorbed now as remnants through linen, without ambition, once swirled 

promises to wild geese of eternal flight and cruising



no words now ...

the old man outside is playing his violin up into Spring winds again








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DannyBeatty
Poetry
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