chocolate is a verb

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Tag Archives: morning light

found poem: dawn

found poem © j.i. kleinberg ~ dawn
found poem © j.i. kleinberg


found poem: WHEN DAY

found poem © j.i. kleinberg ~ WHEN DAY
found poem © j.i. kleinberg

found poem: every MORNING

found poem: fifty shades

found poem: the morning

found poem: Sunlight

found poem: subtle

found poem: the sun

found poem: the line

found poem: in search

found poem: morning

found poem: The sun

found poem: breaching

found poem: trees

gray morning poem

found poem: the hands

found poem: bare

found poem: HUSHED

morning light

Before the pink cotton candy and the apricot fluff,
sour yellow light lifts the blanket of clouds from the hilltops,
thick gray flannel threadbare where I’ve rubbed the edges in my sleep,
nub and weave wearing thin from so many seasons of washing.

September, wistfully

Jonagold applesAfter the rain — yesterday’s really BIG rain — the morning earth is nearly black, the greens ultra green. In some places, September is the hottest month. But here, in our corner of Cascadia, the word Fall has found its way into many conversations. There’s a chill in the morning and evening, and leaves on the ground. I consider that it might be time to put away the fans, time for a heavier blanket on the bed, for sweaters and socks, for moving a pile of firewood nearer the back door. The garden beckons me with its autumn work, apples heavy on the tree, a last clutch of plums ready to pluck.

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