EBP

Untitled
It’s been thirty plus years.
The future is here in August.

A baby will arrive to be surrounded in
embroidery,
smocking, and
needlepoint.

My fingers are
slow,
crooked, and
stubby.

Doesn’t matter.
The future is here in August.

About justbrinkley

poetry, flash fiction, prompts from a southern granny who should have been a writer.
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