Once upon a time, I read that the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three. Apparently most of T.S. Elliot’s stuff came out then, the rest having to do with prose. I realized January 19ththat I will turn twenty-four in three months, and since I started writing some poems before it’s too late: forty-six poems at twenty-three. I’ll post each Friday until the last week of March, then I’ll post one a day until my birthday on April 30th. Here’s number 15:

Summer flowers skirt her waist
Floating, wind wafting wrinkles
Below, shadowing frail feet with
Pastel contours

Nightfall coating her shoulders
Disguising, moonless mantle encasing
Above, enlightening mild features with
Gloom