BUSH SOUL
the trees are dying for me to write
I could never write a sentence to make up for that
even the air feels borrowed
breathing to death
bless the breaths in my diaphragm
I’m writing as a dying man.
BUSH SOUL
the trees are dying for me to write
I could never write a sentence to make up for that
even the air feels borrowed
breathing to death
bless the breaths in my diaphragm
I’m writing as a dying man.
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HOMESCHOOLING MOTHER OF 5, ALL THINGS DOMESTIC, MY CRAZY LIFE
poems, and the poet who poems them
(Somewhat) Daily News from the World of Literary Nonfiction
It's always about writing...
Co-author of Mapping the Valley
Freelance Creative Professional
Writer * Editor * Educator * Weirdo
Lifesaving Poems
Just another WordPress.com site
(poetry and other stuff, but mostly poetry)
Just another WordPress.com site
a roominghouse for the servants of the duende
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