by MaryAnne Hafen
My mountains bleed into my sky
on paper, and it looks wrong,
but it’s like real life;
virgo at summer’s end.
The world is too strange
to paint as it really is, too filled
with poorly pruned trees.
by MaryAnne Hafen
My mountains bleed into my sky
on paper, and it looks wrong,
but it’s like real life;
virgo at summer’s end.
The world is too strange
to paint as it really is, too filled
with poorly pruned trees.
Filed under Poetry