Beets simmer in the pot
as the sun burns a path
through the archetypal mist of dawn.
Ferns hang limpid in the dew
and cattle low from the hilltop.
Mary hangs sheets from the line in her underwear
slapping out love from the folds.
Penning a poem of just 44 words to make up a Quadrille for dVerse, the pub where poets hang out.
For Quadrille #157 the only other requirement is the inclusion of some form of the word type. I may have stretched that a bit. Check out the pub!!