From where does
age
continue to swing
when branches begin to end in
wind wonder that
kept us along
the arc that we knew if we jumped we’d have to land with our feet
now covered in the
bark, we
saw by those who taught us
we could fly.
“You’ll be fine”
Love is the eyes in
truths tell. Love is the lies.
Swinging
Posted
Author
Ian Repko
Categories
April Poems, Home