The Versesmith

I lay awake ‘neath cotton sheet far late into the night, or early morning, if I check the clock, its blood-red numbers near pens and tissues, a novel I haven’t finished, and likely never will. The coating of dust telling. Telling of time. Time past. Time spent. Time at a standstill. Not present time, nor times to come. But of your time, its abrupt and unexpected end another night, when it was far too late to reset, fall back, or spring forward. And too early to imagine death. Don’t believe them. Time doesn't heal all wounds. Time doesn’t heal wounds at all.   ©2019 Lisa Smith Nelson. All Rights Reserved

Children out of school Shouting in the dark’ning streets Barefoot on the lawns   ©2019 Lisa Smith Nelson. All Rights Reserved

The saying is that spring has sprung I say it sunk Sunk in dismal days and starless nights and mud March winds blew in more than showers April’s rains torrential floods Proverbial blooms of May caught in late freezes Encapsulated in ice as ants in amber A spring sunk in despair and mired memory The sun below the horizon dims and goes out Or is it I alone that sunk too deep one wet spring day?   ©2019 Lisa Smith Nelson. All Rights Reserved