Paper and pokeweed purple ink
A white birch letter, lover’s pledge
Placed beneath an old king bolete
In the mosquito guarded sedge.
Ink fading at the evening’s edge,
An offer not standing its ground.
With decay and its color bled,
The words give way to forest sounds.
* One of the nice things about writing, solitary as it can be, is belonging to a writer’s group. Mine is the real deal–Diego Vazquez, Jr., Sandra Erskine, Kari Fisher, Paula Nanacarrow, Loren Niemi and others. I just try to keep up. Our prompt for the next meeting was “poke.” I came up with a huitain featuring pokeweed, toxic unless properly prepared.