Wedding Song
Her hands,
heavily wrinkled,
touch the thorns
on the rose.
The petals-
color of the pinprick
of blood on her finger-
drop to the table's
cherry bark surface.
The petals are flour-soft-
her leathery grasp
feels like sandpaper.
She views the morning,
the pines and maples, and birch,
their wraith- like branches cloaked
in their shiny garb.
The song sparrows
congregate as
the yellow -daisy tints
of the sunrise softly touch
ruby-sienna bricks of the tenement,
-in which she quietly yearns..
like the hush of falling snow-
to bloom again-
in a Summer garden.
.
Copyright © Jennifer Cahill | Year Posted 2019
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