Rose
petals fall among
tumbleweeds
of dust blowing
into
crevices, splitting
my
imagination.
I
saw fire on the lake flaring,
flat
stones skimming
the
reflections of flame dissolving
then
refocusing.
I
want to rhyme, she said.
I
want to rhyme with dust,
not
roses.
I
reach for a bottle
of
something but it’s empty,
consumed
the night I saw
fire
on the lake.
Seth
Haines has a writing
prompt Thursday – two different videos of the same song. Technically, we’re
supposed to write something and submit it to Seth, but I decided to go ahead
and post the poem I wrote here.
