There she stood, such a weird woman; on this day without a date, on a back street, dusky. Who would have thought she was a poet extraordinary. Hers was the task of spinning stories, like those silent industrious spiders. Making magical, diaphanous threads of homespun words.
In every leaf hidden a line; verbs doing something; changing from green to yellow and such like. Every branch, a rib of a larger skeleton holding meanings, only the careful reader could translate. Such a weird woman mumbling; arms outstreatched pointing at a tree.
© gillena cox 2023
REVISIT
20180508
