Progress

The familiar cold of a mid-November Sunday--
Atticus dutifully sniffs the path of his predecessor
as dried leaves scrape across the pavement
rattling the early quiet.

A frigid wind blurs my vision
as one foot falls in front of the other
ever forcing me forward.

No comments:

National Poetry Month - April 5, 2020

Today's color: White (Commentary below poem...) For those who do not know me, I was born with a cleft lip and palate in 1969. I w...