In the morning,
After all the tea is drunk and the tedium suffered,
The mistakes of yesterday still hover above
Like a dark clustering cloud that won’t dis-spell.
All the people look away,
And the newspapers keep blowing in the wind.
A paper-thin feeling lingers,
Like an onion skin or a flower petal
That’s worn to a silver shadow.
The wind seeps right in through the wool.
What will there be to show for all of this?
more by Lëaf Ednïwinga
photograph by Matt Popovich
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