Poetry
crescent hills
Oct 13th
On crescent hills, hooves are heard by mice alone.
A mark is left of those who gallop, yet tiny steps remain unknown.
While thundrous clouds proclaim maned beauty, a small caterpillar minds his own.
And as the ‘pillar’s tiny kettle sizzles, his friend the horse fumbles humbly home.
beneath the canopy
Oct 13th
quaintly guarded beneath the canopy, rests a secret of an ancient tree of which the great wise frog tells great tales a meeting place for talking birds and dancing snails
