The Sound of Ink

Tree limbs decorated with brown leaves write their ode to change on the moon in autumn’s calligraphy. Today and tomorrow sit on owl feathers waiting for midnight to slip one into history while the other gracefully relinquishes its crown of future. I feel the weight of inevitable lift from my spirit as I surrender to my own metamorphosis. The starlight song of ancestors plays as I write a new chorus. ©Susie Clevenger 2019 Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Change

In the palm of eyes and the ear of skin days darken before they even begin. The sky bleeds crows in drops of black ink, leaves rise on the fall, wither and shrink. Neither here nor there mist laces bare limbs with droplets of dew, whispers, and whims. In the season of crumble the hours grow short, shadows grow longer, and wicked holds court. Beware of what you hear, be careful where you go. Witch and winter plot in sable and drifting snow. ©Susie Clevenger 2019 Poets United ~ Midweek Motif