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Serendipitous |
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Serendipitous |
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How
Serendipitous, the poet said to herself for my pen is full of ink but my page is blank. I listen softly to the wind outside my country house. The red-orange flame is like the lonely artist, who draws swirls of orange and red. As the artist says “ How Serendipitous” that I’m alone. If there were people near me I wouldn’t have my artistic touch. How Serendipitous. |
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This page was last updated on November 28, 2002 by the KIWW Webmaster. |
