Woodland inkwell

Leafy Letters

A wood nymph was writing her poems on the
leaves
thoughts falling in phrases
composing, aligning
words waiting to speak

oak leaves her pages their stems a fine
pen
dipped into dew drops
decanted and damp
invisible sentences
in secret script scrawled

torn leaflets wet letters epistles small
tomes
scribbled and lacy
on the lobe of each leaf
her library littered with
words stacked underfoot



For the Record,
This day came in with drizzle and drip. Warm wet and damp, a day for tea and books and just catching up.

I took a short walk in the woods after blueberry pancakes and coffee, looking for something to blip. Folks have lived here for ages, dumping their bottles in a heap by the path. I can always find something interesting to to shoot. Mossy terrariums and glassy color broken in various shades and shards of decay.