by Lisa Higgs
Along the edges of snowmelt, a thin skin
of what is not ice, of what is not snow,
but some rare weave of form passing its twin
in selfsame geneses. Strand of marrow,
waiting its tide. Pull of light a discipline
Continue reading
by Lisa Higgs
Along the edges of snowmelt, a thin skin
of what is not ice, of what is not snow,
but some rare weave of form passing its twin
in selfsame geneses. Strand of marrow,
waiting its tide. Pull of light a discipline
Continue reading
Filed under Poetry