Glass dwellings could never sustain us
My cool presence tempered your heat
Until crack repairs broke me
Fragile walls mirrored truth
This home is not love
A sharper me
Duly cast
The first
Stone
About the Creator
Marilyn Glover
Poet and editor, writing to uplift humanity; working on her debut poetry collection to be released in 2026.
British American dual citizen living in the States. Mother of four, grandmother of two.
Owner of The Quiet Collective
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More stories from Marilyn Glover and writers in Poets and other communities.
When the Shelter Closes
Across the street from my house, a man slept under a tree, his dog by his side. My first, naive thought: he must be traveling through. But he kept coming back, often sleeping there during the day. Then it hit me—that person might not have a home.
By Bride of Sound4 days ago in Humans
Comments (2)
Well done.
Very effective, especially with the photo.