it was the road, the
odd shape
of detours, of
camouflaged hands
that could not hold the
soulful beat
of blues, tyranny of
language denting the heart
it was the pause, the
crease of unopened letters
unsettling, of
stories shaping me, my
path, my name
Original poem: Driftwood by Sara Teasdale
My forefathers gave me
My spirit's shaken flame,
The shape of hands, the beat of heart,
The letters of my name.Posted for dVerse Poets Pub: Poetry Form - Golden Shovel. Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST. Thanks for your visits and comments.
