They say there’s much you can do with stale bread. Panzanella, bruschetta, crostini. Croutons, bread pudding. How like spring, new and fresh, it goes quickly, and then, the blistering oven of summer is here. But, how do you salvage a poem, like sunrise, so fleeting you can never seem to catch it in time? Like manna. Here and gone. I saw it today, etched into the glass of a window with an epitaph:
This broke my heart in all the vulnerable places, Jen 💔. Beautiful writing. ❤️❤️❤️
Thank you, sweet Nazish ♥️🧡💛
Beautifully written! “But, how do you salvage a poem, like sunrise,
so fleeting you can never seem to catch it in time?” Stunning work!
Thank you! 🤍