It's always East here, dear
(the crawl and all of how much I love Persephone
except when she leaves me)
It's funny
in directionless ornation
spent sentiment
chasing the emotional content
of memory nuanced
as if wet clay
waiting to want form,
how holding images
like Maxfield Parrish's Ecstacy
can remind me of you
before I only came
to spy the dawn
instead of greeting her
as you do
and our daughter too
stretched and reverent
and with the smile of possibility
taking what bends then rise,
pregnant as I used to be
with what the wind can carry
round past
what a shared midnight
might have found
does not last past
once along the way...
Faves:
ReplyDeletebefore I only came
to spy the dawn
instead of greeting her
as you do
and our daughter too
past
what a shared midnight
might have found
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