Tuesday, 21 February 2017

South-Breeze From Your Soil

At dusk she arrives, dressed in gold
With a little deep-space blue of winter nights; 
Or of tangled hair between two pairs of lips; 
A frangipani story in her closed fist
Snaking into your rooms; seeking tomorrow's noon 

Dreams rounded up into silver-white pearls
A little of knowing you, woven together
With threads of suspended time, a sacred knot
As sunlit diamonds roll on placid waters; she hangs
longing on your windowsill; as did yesterday's moon 

Don't hold that south breeze from your soil; 
Lock your doors tight, dear stranger.




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