Handwritten
To weave a word, a fabric of thought,
Each glimpse of bluish image caught.
Sweet tinge of orange scent, half gone
Delicately knitted in flowing, yellowing song.
Old letters laced now in sepia and white,
Each silent sound, grayness of dusk takes flight.
Brian Strand Contest B
Copyright © Norma Arana | Year Posted 2016
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