Ending This is the end the broken clouds the cut grass on a north Georgia autumn morning the left over pencil shavings on an author’s desk the tattered hat that traveled farther then your pair of The Thousand mile boots beside the never clean stained white mug of wood color coffee. Find the old gloves in the kitchen junk drawer that your father wore when he cut down the old pine tree there in the back yard with his breath as white as the silk smoke from a hand rolled cigarette on that ivory morning when you could still hear the neighbors dogs barking before the sun wraps his shadow around them.
83 | THE BLUE MOUNTAIN REVIEW