Poetry Month What to do: Assume a poem could be found words on feathers that the loop of the river Storm out of yourself Trees fall in a pickle. Read — Douglas Gilbert
on unlikely tongues
on ice cream cones
and lick it. Place
tickle the fickle. Let
spell
splash blue ink.
a thunder whisper in a flash
in a moment of
passion flooding
momentously drizzling drops
of salty inklings
up a creek for a beaver
heard. Who’s
there, here
who calls
to be right
write
me with syrup
under a maple
over a river
with a pickle
resuming a crunch