blown on my sill,
looked high and low,
trying hard to chill,
reminded me
of my own state.
I asked him for tea
but he couldn't wait.
© Julianne Carlile
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dying leaves on trees changing color falling down where now is your soul
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My grandmother used to take us fishing. Feet dangling from the pier, she’d bait our hooks and take the fish off. Most too...
This poem was written in response to Wilda Morris's poetry challenge for April: a poem about a crow.
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