This page is white as a white can be
Til I lift my pen and trace
A scrawl of black from an inky sac,
A tale of the human race.
I pick and choose, who wins, who lose
Their brief duet with fate,
Who twist and turn as they live and learn
To dance at my garden gate.
I paint in the cliffs and the sky above,
The shingle, down on the shore,
Friday, March 20, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: romance