December 11, 2013 § Leave a comment

she never kept good company
with the congregation or
their chattering in that building,
their unkindness,
their cauldron of charm,
it left her looking for an opening
to run for the cover of the woods
her place in nature
where she could brood
and muster her thoughts
of murder and deceit

she would watch for the birds
in spring, pitying their short run

there she could fall
into slumber with a
wisp of forest bouquet
on her wrists and the
hope that better tidings
waited for her
at the end of her solitary walk

(c) 2013 Fred Whitehead


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