Micropoems

Cold rain, slate sky, high winds–the hazards of walking, on an October Saturday.

Beauty muscled its way–in blue spangles and Je Reviens–past bridesmaids and bartenders, paint guns in hand.

The evening sky:
crimson on grey,
cumulus to cirrus,
ghosted over
by October winds.

Hank built–panel by panel, note by note, chord by chord–every high-lonesome, twanging wail, into his house of music.

The pardoner, the summoner, the saucy wife–the motley lot, en route to Glastonbury: they each, every one, had a story to tell.

Copyright 2011, Antoinette M. Herrera.

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