Sheep-less Day 13) Napowrimo Riddle

A fiery-baptism

softens each wayward night

Speaking in tongues

of my ancestors-kin

laying under each stoney-neck

Purging the confessions of the wind

  Swinging clicks

stroke of cotton

lead astray

One hundred and eighty degrees

 I believe.

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4 thoughts on “Sheep-less Day 13) Napowrimo Riddle

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