Mound of Sorrow
oh how cold
the drift of migrant winds
unto the strip of lawn,
their newly planted garden
now slowly blooming
with jasmines and herbs that rise
above a pile of flakes.
Will he ever know how
she tended each bud
unfurling fingers to touch the lattice
of night stars? Her pale body leans
upon a mound as she lifts her cheeks
to seek his face on a hazy twirl of lamplight;
while December’s froth scrapes her breath
melting the dew…bending her form
which drops in a waterhole of sorrow.
.
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Poem for Carol Eastman
Sumbitted 6/19/2016
Copyright © Nette Onclaud | Year Posted 2014
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