Tuesday, December 16, 2008


It is night, and cold
The streets are painted black
With the freshness of rain
Reflecting the curtained lights
Of a thousand extraordinary lives
Warm within his red anorak
Miriam's Little Fox weaves within
The ripples of fragmentary conversations
Carelessly unleashed to ramble
Amid the zephyr eddies of the
Storm children of yester-hour

Sent from my iPhone

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