While sitting on the curb,
I see a rusty old bolt
laying on the pavement.
I pick it up,
turn it and feel its heft,
its cold edges,
My fingers
now stained orange.
I run fingertips
over threads
still sharp,
not stripped.
It once held
something together,
and still could.
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Crying under a shower of rain makes you think the whole world is weeping with you. Standing under an Autumn tree makes you think the
Gypsy of flowers The winds carry many showers, flowers of petal towers swaying with life’s handshakes, writing in meadows with light shades. Curtains of sunlight
