Indian Blankets
In the quiet ebon of morning,
Thoughts arrive as droplets from the sky.
I’ve expended too much of my seventy-nine years,
Waiting on a bus called someday;
Now that the bus has arrived I discover,
I don’t have the price of a ticket,
Indian Blankets don’t populate my meadow,
And my time for planting has passed.
Copyright © Tom Wright | Year Posted 2018
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