Thirteen

184

The poppies were blue when I turned thirteen,
gnarled as if some strange burden oppressed,
frivolous in their falling, as if the roots were
only lightly held, and the blossoms had inklings
of their apocalyptic fate, when the audible
tolling of the bell would sound their epilogue;
how speedy is life unless locked in the literary.

http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2014/10/26/wordle-184-a-bakers-dozen/

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About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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