Tuesday, June 16, 2009
by Janet Paszkowski
My critic is dead!
I do so love dead critics. Critics are like plows, churning their opinions, while pitching manure in their barren mind fields
Now a blood-stained white sheet remains my bedside critic, while the silence—dwelling between vacant words--becomes the source of the green sprout,
rising in my fertile garden.
Posted by biblioasis at 8:34 AM