A Year of Poems – Day 308

Short strips of time pressed together,
once wet and full as a cloud filled with weather
which fell upon the earth and every drop a crystal ball,
Yet now the plants lie in strips pressed dry from all
Expectancy, leaving just the essence tied to the present.
A future free, waiting to be inked, dry now but one day sent
with ink soaked into a strip of time –
a sample of this second caught in rhyme.


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