The wings of winter
Silent flutter on the northern winds
Drifting away back to its abode
With the melting mist to hibernation
Thu’ the rustle of leaves’ stem-snapped isolation
Shaping the space for the sprouting verdancy of spring.
Your frost smitten footprints
Deformed to dust on the brittle garden path
Disappeared with the ripples of the receding air
The remains of a few prints on the gateway
Reminiscent of my time with you
Unpierced by the thorny creeper
To meet the death of oblivion
Returned metamorphosed in spring
With the majenta color burst
In the blossom of remembrance
On the doorway of my heart
I saw you bloom … my bougainvillea.
Written : March 23, 2019
April 1, 2020
Contest : Strand Choice W, Any Theme, Any Form
Sponsor : Brian Strand
From my pillow,
Illusions are unfriended.
Each and every.
But this moon,
with clouds between
she and eye...
I love illusion,
once more.
She thought of herself as Dorothy
tornadoed into an unknowable oblivion
winded she rises,
fetal curled about an umbilicus of she
a shattered reality lays before her.
Shards of past self's pirouette, prisms
released from the boxed frame of sash
and nested frame of sill,
she rises.
The crisp whiteness of a slip sheeted reality
anesthetizes the tumult of pillows
and comforters left behind
she is trampolined upward
but blown inward,
no out lay.
Unpierced by cut glass
chin tucked, bookless, fairy groomed,
the she child exists within the blink
a flash frozen riser.
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