There are no magic words, but words can still move sticks and stones. And mountains.
I don’t dream any more. But you have one that reoccurs. I don’t remember it all. And carefully interpreted, And concluded at the time I heard it,
By Beth Fryabout a year ago in Poets
Familiar friend, rare. Wide, touching every eye. Wild. We empathize.
blue bulb broke on tree It’s our world hanging onto Christmas misery
