And then ... my father died
By Myra Lochner
The rivulet, which gurgled every spring my name was brought to a sudden halt freezing in the tracks of deers etched in the soft pulps of undergrowth Now it is only the lonely owl sitting in his Silence who dares to call the summer with the short but sorrowful sound of foretelling reflecting circles of twin moons heavily painted in lifeless eyes She stepped out in the dark night carrying the coat of snow like a boa draped around her shoulders and then ... my father died. The red poinsettia at the front gate screamed in its perfection Who with unsteady hand has painted black frames of pain on white entrances? myra Written January 27th, 2002 © on Jan 27 2002 02:49 PM PST, Myra Lochner 0 • 18 • 1
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"The rivulet, which gurgled every spring..."