william cullen


there he is again

the stranger in my mirror

staring right through me

like I don’t exist anymore

while he looks for someone missing


In misty twilight

a crow’s shadow passes near

while a leaf falls

into the old birdbath

silent of songs we long to hear


their old drinking well

that used to hold cool water

bakes in the hot drought

as they hear imagined thunder

and thirst for rumors of rain



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