Throughout the forest glen
One chilly morn in early spring,
I spied a wounded Carolina wren.
His rusty plumage
Had its own allure
And blended nicely with his roomage.
Such imperfection never looked so pure.
He had a broken wing,
But still he chose to sing.
October 15, 2017 ~ Ercil
Decastich with a pattern of 2-3-4-5-2-3-4-5-3-3 iambic feet per line.
Rhyme scheme: ababcdcdee
© 2017 Abigail Gronway – All Rights Reserved
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