The Romp of Letters Adriana Bockman-Pedersen
Pages beckon to listen closely, calling glassy eyes to be lost in a wood. Fresh leather tells of power mostly,
Poetry 8
she held the door open for all she could. Were there music surrounding, therapeutic harp-strings would be resounding, hand-carved flutes would whistle, great fires would burn until the dawn brought dew. Words turn to fog and the grass becomes brittle, the embers sputtered until the flames withdrew. They did not compose songs, no feigned reminiscence. Just silence held strong as if clinging to consciousness.
Living Waters Review
