Library Book


herons soar
over frothy
tumbles of water
what cannot be seen
from the shore

turtles meditate
on slick stones
for the time
by a lack of energy

surprisingly sparkles
as it dances
the murky flow
softened by islands

all of this
ushers in the
warm and gentle
of spring

her nose
directs her eyes
to a solitary figure
on a rusting bench

she could smell
the library in the book
as she watched
a finger
pointing to each word

like a wispy cloud
covering the sun
the smell was ephemeral
but strangely
tattooed on her heart

About justbrinkley

poetry, flash fiction, prompts from a southern granny who should have been a writer.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s