To
Myself,
Get
No
Answer,
And
Circle
The
Room,
A
Solitary
Dancer,
Waiting
For
The
Silent
Word
That
Shows
Me
The
Way
To
Make
Shadows
Flow
Into
Flesh,
And
Render
The
Familiar
Form
Fresh.
I Talk
To Myself, Get No Answer, And Circle The Room, A Solitary Dancer, Waiting For The Silent Word That Shows Me The Way To Make Shadows Flow Into Flesh, And Render The Familiar Form Fresh.
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The
Wind Has Blown For Hours, Tormenting The New Garden Flowers, Moves And Shakes It All, Short And Tall. I’m Grateful The Gusts Don’t Break The Blossoming Stems, And Like As Not, Carry The Whole Plot Bodily Away, On This Very Blustery Day. The
White Iris Beside The Walk Sway On Slender Stalks In Ruffled Grace. Petals Flutter To Expose An Inner Space, Only Half Enclosed, Where Golden Pollen Resides, And Beauty Quietly Hides. The
Poppies Close Their Petals At Night, Then Open To Gather Cups Of Sunlight, Orange Bright, Huddled Together To Form A Garden Song Sung All Day Long. A
Billow Bank Of Cloud Hides The Sun, Holding Back Spring Flower Fun, But Shade Cannot Last As The Light Rushes Past. The Lilac Knows The Breeze Blows In The Eager Season, Fulfilling Nature’s Secret Reasons. New Mexico 2
Out Here, Old Roots Run Deep Beneath The Sand, Of Tribes Which Roamed This Land, And One Does Well To Understand How Silence Reigned, Then Fell Away With Every Passing Day. Go West, Was Said, And Many Make The Trek, To Build And Plow Until Now There Is A Din Of Noise Covering The Past, Which Against Progress, Could Not Last. The
Canvas On My Easel Is Upside Down, To Facilitate The Painting Of The Background. This One Is Much Like A Hundred Other Pieces I Have Done, But Somehow, Always New, Becomes Itself, And Emerges Fully Formed, No Matter What I Do. Tomorrow
Is April, And I’m Unprepared, Recalling Other Aprils That We Shared, And How Much We Cared. It All Slipped Away On Yet Another April Day, Blowing All The Flowers Away. I Survived, To Keep Your Memory Alive And Ever New, Do My Best, And Lovely April Does The Rest. Pigeons
Gather On A Nearby Roof, The Males Attentive, The Females Aloof. Round And Round The Suitors Spin, In A Dance Of Bird Romance, But It’s Not Their Lucky Day. In A Flock, The Ladies Fly Away. Does
Anyone Know How To Let Go Of Ragged Dreams, Worn By Travel, Tearing At The Seams, And Yet, Still Get By? No Matter What I Try, They Cling To Everything, Faded And Torn To Fragments, Stories Untold, Now Grown Old, Their Time Run Out, The Heart Unable To Share, Though I More Than Care, Each Silent Line Wholly Mine. |
AuthorJeanette Collins Archives
March 2024
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