saturday morning finds me
sitting in my doorway
listening to the pitter pat
of the falling rain,
and soaking up the cool
wind blowing on my face
and skin.
the sky is blanketed
in a quilt of clouds,
all different shades of
gray and silver.
and my bare feet long to
take me to the soft wet
grass
and through the cold
dirty gutters
of my youth.
but my city feet are
too tender now
and i turn back inside
for another cup
of coffee
and a blanket that
i hope will
cover up my sadness.
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“through the cold
dirty gutters
of my youth.”
i love the emotion in your poems, that seep a little like nostalgia through the page. a great poem once again. 🙂
xx
but like playing a guitar, you won’t create experiences without developing callouses; on fingers or feet. just do it.
too right.
(i so wish i had a guitar!)