(a ghazal)

hundred nights, dark sky or moon light, she was
looking out through the window, down the road

midnight wind whispered in her ear. asking
if she regretted walking off course, off the road

pine trees whistled, as though mocking her choice
when she arrived at a fork in the road

girl, did you flip a coin? their laughter roared
constantly doubting her wisdom for the road

then a black crow perched on cinnamon tree
looking right at her from across the road

with eyes as sharp as knife, he croaked: annie,
keep walking, down till the end of the road


written for napowrimo day thirteen, “a ghazal

© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved


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