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our little hour whistled by a bird
kept within a year a promise in a pocket a stone we turn worrying its corners into rounds we lean forward to each week and look backward upon for strength Friends gathered around a certain fire the spark of love that cannot be contained stills and refreshes with its lulling refrain Bob Elmendorf
3 Comments
Wyn Hayes
11/20/2020 06:54:42 am
With just a few words, Bob, you evoke vast realms of emotion. Thank you
Christine Rosensteel
11/21/2020 01:54:14 am
Simply stirs feelings.
Richard Russell
1/26/2021 10:24:00 am
I liked your poem, Bob. Reminds me a little of Pablo Neruda. :) Leave a Reply. |
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November 2024
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