where I write by moonlight
words scrawled across a page,
just blurred lines by the refined
light of the sun bouncing off our moon,
to shine on this page,
else dying (which is: not trying);
where bullfrogs and lark
chant a chorus in the night-
then I would take flight, and go home.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish
Comment on this Bubble
Your comment and a link to this bubble will also appear in your Facebook feed.