does she remember love?
the taste of chamomile
or colour of sky blushing?
did the clouds burst all at once
or trickle with each taunting poke
until she lay saturated,
unable to feel the pain-drops
streaming down her face?
are sun-smudged days only dreams?
I am your host for the Quadrille at
We are working with the word “smudge”, blending it into our 44 word poems.
Doors open at 3 p.m. EST