Poets of the fall await great things inside harbinger’s dread
the scent of the monsoon rains still clinging to their coats
carried down river with awakening senses
revealing the bones of something holy whispering
a sacred dawning of understanding the sacraments of rain
inscribing a prophesy of the parchment
with metaphors they sing their psalms to Mother Earth
fingers trembling with the weight of ink
the scent of the monsoon rains still clinging to their coats.








hello dearest Adagio this came out beautifully thank you for writing with me today ❤️
You are very welcome, Brenda.