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.

No comments:

Post a Comment