vignette 3 Replies the poppy, twirled behind the pane, opening it’s petals, within a frame ponders snowfall, ne’er the rain. how silently, it’s whispers call and wander, ’til flecks end their fall and red begins to bow and wane like vignettes, sacred and profane. Share this:FacebookTwitterEmailLike this:Like Loading... Related
Beautiful poem 😀
Thank you! I’m glad you liked the poem. I appreciate the comment.
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