Category: Feature
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Encircling It are many a shoot and stalk/ Conifers, laden, pining for the light of Daystar/ Lend resiny incense to the breeze and chalk/ Up their offspring to winds blowing from afar.
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So I will wipe the tarnish from my silver spoon, And dig a hole, one spoonful at a time Into the dead earth. I will make a grave for broken things.
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I often find that an idea for a poem comes to me, like a piece of grit in an oyster, but the pearl of a poem takes time to develop
The Locus 