pining

Sun, 07/30/2017 - 11:55 -- rm18

my thoughts are pine needles

they drift into my head

and snap again,

just as easily.

 

they rustle in the wind

a sign of growth

then settle to the floor

of a cavern

 

(they join a carpet

hundreds of years old)

 

the cavern so big

and so small

that it will never be noticed.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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