It feels as though time’s grasp is
breaking. I see blood-
colored berries clinging fast
to thin brown twigs etched
against the sky, bone-white
arms of birches angled
upward, juiceless
leaves skittering over the
ground like scarabs from some
pharaoh’s open tomb; a
sudden smell of wood-smoke.
margaretmaryjoyce 
Lovely poem – I really felt I could see, feel and finally smell everything.
One little note: juiceless is one word.
*Marilyn*
450 776 4563 (Cell)
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Hi Marilyn, That’s so great that you got that out of it. Like Mark said last week, a poem should communicate with its reader; otherwise, what’s the point of it. So, yay!
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