Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable

Mid-Spring

A sunny, April day
should never be spent stressing
more than syllables.

Currently

Under the crests,
into the trough,
succumbing to
a lesser loss.

You’re fielding crops
as the soil
exhausts.

Salt water
on our heads,
and in our eyes,
withers every stalk.