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: 


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