Posted by Laura, May 31, 2014. 1703 views. ID = 6665
This post was written in 0 minutes.
|For this poem, the prompt said to look out the window and write down several nouns, adjectives, and verbs that I could see just from where I sat. Then I had to incorporate all those words into a poem. Well, I didn't think there was a whole lot there, but it was enough to inspire a poem about stones.|
Stones are chiseled by being,
Lying on the road: gray, tan, brown,
Amidst dirty snow and birds,
Each season applying its friction.
Red and orange sky brings each outline
Into view, survivors of melting,
From the spinning rubber of cars
To the summer idleness of grass.
There is a small pile next to the shed,
Passively stacked and scattered,
Driving on through the blue oblivion
Of everything. When does a stone become
Dirt? Landing on the vines and trees,
Mountain dust tracked all through the house,
Coming to rest in little places of everywhere.
Flying over the earth it's all you see
In black and white, too big and too small
To put a number to.Copyright 2014 Laura. All rights reserved. FifteenMinutesOfFiction.com has been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work. For permission to reprint this item, please contact the author.
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