Three Fibs

The

nonce

is all

that I know,

though chance may tell you

that all these things are intended.

 

 

I

come

to you

with these hands

full of tracks and trails

now winding upon your softness.

 

 

Small

birds

alight

upon green

branches with green leaves–

browns, turning to black in the dusk.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…puttin’ the Po in NaPoWriMo…