The fragrance of leaves.
The chill that comes with evening.
Old wounds ache again.
Like this:
Like Loading...
Related
Published by
Bobby Ball
I love poetry. But I'm picky.
No one pays me to read and write poems. It's more of a labor of love. I guess that puts me in good company. This is a project to discover why some poems strike you deep, deep down, while others leave you cold. I've got some ideas, and I'm eager to learn. I'll show you some of mine. Maybe we'll learn something new.
View all posts by Bobby Ball
Poetic Champions 
“The Wound of Boarding School”
The first “chill” in the air happens in September 1962. It is my first night away from my mother and father. I am very scared. An owl’s hoot startles me from my shallow slumber. Even knowing that she would never have embraced me; I yearn for the safety of of my mother’s bed.
I was nine years old.
Aches color the heart for a long time…
LikeLike