Dew
Today
I think of myself as the dew on pink morning roses,
the ones in aunties garden,
i smell them now that the moon has slipped away,
leaving in its' wake
a circus
of
seashells that were once fine minds,
women who endured the night and
its men who spoke of their own grandeur
after the cognac bottle was dry.
I see them through the prisms of a dewdrop self,
still silent as the morning rose bursts forth.
Copyright © Kathryn Sweeney | Year Posted 2018
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