Written by M.L. Kiser
The river pours itself down lakes and streams;
along its way, collecting its baubles;
drift wood, rocks, feathers and leaves for its scrapbook.
It likes to wax philosophical in the moonlights rays;
It’s voice nearly silent, for the duration.
That’s when the night choir sings in its place.
Copyright, 2019, M.L. Kiser
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Form of Poetry