Saturday, March 21, 2015

Musing

Forty years later,
your face like a quince,
mouth puckered where
stem connects to twig,
your smile an indent.
I wanted to write a poem for you,
(men make such good muses)
because I remember our kiss.
I still think of it,
like I think of trees
waving their lovely hands
in a young breeze.
Passion is part of the myth.
But now, you're a knotted branch,
last light of beauty in your eyes.
I touch the thin skin of your cheek,
and I sigh.

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