In Perpetual Spin
Turn around! Turn around!
In perpetual spin memories abound.
One gown, long to the ground.
Antique white - quite profound.
A mother’s right to sow seeds.
A holy Father’s to yank weeds.
Snowbound virginal waist.
No legs, the hem was chaste.
Turn around! Turn around!
In perpetual spin memories abound.
Took the dress out for a formal spin.
Line dances would break her in.
Innocence with natural beige and blush.
Looks like a bride; there is no rush.
A mother’s right to sow seeds.
A holy Father’s to yank weeds.
Thrice used for the thrifty -
sceptical mightn’t find nifty.
One gown, long to the ground.
Antique white - quite profound.
She, the dress, looks like a bride -
the prom goer would confide.
Turn around! Turn around!
In perpetual spin memories abound.
The cake topper would be baby’s breath.
A mother would provide before its death.
The death of the gown buried in drawer,
found and tried on at least once more.
In secret, her daughter found and dressed.
Who knows if she was impressed -
however looking forward, she’d pick out
her very own ankle-covered knockout.
One gown, long to the ground.
Antique white - quite profound.
Only today, I discovered similarities -
a mother’s and daughter’s peculiarities.
Turn around! Turn around!
In perpetual spin memories abound.
5/17/2023
Sponsor: Brian Strand
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