Pink


the needle of the  old phonograph scratches on the roots of a willow tree

’til

 little fish affections gather to bathe in moonlit streams

and the pebbles where my heart used to be

  grow pink once again

10 comments

  1. Wow! How do you generate so many thoughts in me with so few words? Explaining all I see in this would be a full page of prose and would be a lot less effective communicating it. I do not know if this is your intent, but one quick meaning to me anyway is: beautiful music & good can come from the past of our lives, replacing the pain of the wound scabs being reopened with new flesh of forgiveness and fresh vantage points…

    Liked by 1 person

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