Kat says I should post here more often, to create more reader engagement.
Not much to say today.
So I've decided to begin inflicting my angsty high school poetry on you.
A glimpse of who I was in the 60's.
Fate
"Whistle and ride," said the wind.
What of the traveler in his black cloak?
What of the gold that had once filled his poke?
What of her brooch to his shoulder pinned?
"Whistle and ride," said the wind.
The black horse pulled up his picket stake.
How much sleep would his master take?
Why in his breast sat the arrow finned?
"Whistle and ride," said the wind.
What of the maiden who stood by her gate?
She married another. Such is fate.
Copyright M Lindholm 1968